A Honey 'Verse Blind Banker
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Exactly what the title says. The episode 'The Blind Banker' with a Honey 'Verse twist.
1. Tea

**Disclaimer: I own a cat…well two actually. Or rather they own me. Can you own a cat? With their attitudes it certainly seems like they own us doesn't it? I don't own these characters though. Sucks to be me.**

**A/N: Well, I did 'A Study in Pink' for the Honey 'Verse and I decided that it was probably time to do 'The Blind Banker' and then 'The Great Game'. Especially since 'The Great Game' plays quite a large part in the series and in the later stories of Honey 'Verse. So here you go: chapter the first of The Honey 'Verse Blind Banker.**

**Tea**

They watched the elegant hand gently crumbled the tea leaves into the clay pot. The boiling water poured from a silver tea service. The flute played in the background giving the scene a surreal medieval feeling. They felt the transference of time and remained silent as the woman started to speak.

"The great artisans say the more the teapot is used," her lightly accented voice washed over them, pulling them deeper into her enchanted world. She placed the lid on the top of the pot as she spoke allowing the water to run over the edges, drenching the pot. "The more beautiful it becomes." She picked up another container full hot water. "The pot is seasoned by repeatedly pouring tea over the surface." She carefully poured the water over the full teapot. "The deposit left on the clay creates this beautiful patina over time." She picked the teapot up to show the hue of brown had become a bit brighter. "Some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago." She ran a hand over the pot as a mother would her child's cheek. They watched entranced as she pour them each a cup of the tea. "To you this may be a drink. To me this is art and history." She told them softly as they sipped.

Her dark brown eyes smiled up at all of them. "I think the history makes the tea taste that much better, yes?"

One of the boys tittered a bit coming out of the trance her words and voice had put him in. "My mum's always tastes like a rusty fence post," he grinned. "Maybe I should get her to use grandmum's teapot."

She grinned widely at him even as his mother blushed and groaned. "It may be wise to do so, young sir," she agreed. "I thank you all for joining me today and I do hope you will return."

Soo Lin watched fondly as the group drifted away. She loved telling the stories of her homeland to the children that visited the museum. They always responded with such eagerness.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

It was finally time to pack up and go home for the evening. Though Soo Lin doubted she'd go back home. It was so boring at the flat. No one came to visit. She couldn't afford to have friends. Not yet.

She carefully placed the teapots into their lined case as the loudspeaker announced the ten minute warning to the patrons. She could feel Andy behind her and she wished she could answer the question he was going to ask the way they both wanted but she knew that she couldn't. Not yet. Soon maybe…but not yet.

"Four hundred years old and their letting you use it to make yourself a brew," Andy started.

She couldn't resist the small smile at his words. Yes, it was rather amusing when you looked at it like that. "Some things supposed to sit behind glass." She told him softly. "They're made to be touched, to be handled." She felt a bit of a hypocrite saying that. She wanted to be touched but she'd been forced to sit behind glass for nearly all of her life. She looked at him over her shoulder then and knew that he'd understood at least part of her unspoken message.

She sighed and turned back to the teapots before her. "These pots need attention." She picked one up and ran her fingers along it. "The clay is cracking."

He drew in a deep breath and leaned forward a bit. "Well, I can't see how a tiny splash of tea is going to help."

Men of the Western World were so oblivious at times. She'd help him out this once though as he'd been nothing but kind to her. "Sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value." She set the pot down and picked up another to show him. "See? This one shines a little brighter."

He tore his eyes from her profile for a split second to look at the pot before it swung back. "I don't suppose…" he paused and seemed to be attempting to gather his courage. "Um, I mean, I don't suppose that you-you want to have a drink?" He winced at himself. "Not tea, obviously. Um, in a pub with me, tonight?" She turned back to the tea set.

She did her best to let him down as gently as she could. "You wouldn't like me all that much."

Andy frowned for a moment and leaned towards her again. "Couldn't I maybe decide that for myself?"

She swallowed the bitter tears. "I can't," she said quietly. "I'm sorry." She went back to packing up the tea things. "Please stop asking." She hated having to break his heart every day and she just couldn't go to the pub with him. Not yet. She really hoped that one day she could but it wasn't that day yet.

The box for the tea set slammed closed with a finality that he accepted for today anyway.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

The museum doors banged closed. The lights were turned off. Soo Lin stood deep inside the vaults carefully putting the tea set away. A door opened in the distance. She looked up. She had thought she was the only one left. "Is that security?" She called out. She wasn't afraid. The security guard would talk to her sometimes when she was there late. He was a nice old man.

There was no answer and she felt the first flutterings of fear. She took the few steps needed to the door of the vault and look around slowly. "Hello?" She saw no one. The cloth covering one of the statues flapped in a breeze that shouldn't be there.

Carefully, slowly, not altogether sure why she was doing this, she stepped to the statue and laid a hand on the cloth. Somehow knowing what she would find she pulled the cloth away anyway and stared in horror at the statue.


	2. Saracen Assassins and Chip and Pin Machi

**Disclaimer: So I did some research and did you know that it is illegal in the United States to own another person? That really throws a monkey wrench in my plans to make Lestrade my sex slave. I'll have to do a bit more to find out if that includes fictional characters. I mean I can own a book and do, lots of them. So does that mean that I own the people inside of them? For now BBC Sherlock's characters aren't mine as I don't yet own the DVDs and can only watch the episodes on Netflix. More's the pity.**

**A/N: I know I took some great liberties with Soo Lin's thoughts. Sue me. It was necessary you know? If you didn't like it why are you still reading? This is a Honey 'Verse story so everyone will be a bit OOC…except maybe Dimmock but I haven't got there yet.**

**Assassins and Chip and Pin Machines**

John hated doing the shopping. Sherlock always stuck him with it because he couldn't stand the people in the shops, but John hated it just as much as he did. And yet who was doing the shopping, again? John that's who. "Bloody brat," he muttered to the basket in his hand as he waited his turn at the machine.

He wasn't really angry at Sherlock. He'd willingly gone to the shops. Reluctant but willing all the same. John was just getting very bored. Anthea's idea of getting a job was looking more and more promising. Sherlock had been a bit strange since John had got out of the hospital and John was beginning to get fed up with it.

The man behind him nudged John and he stepped forward to the machine. The beeping as he passed the groceries over the plate were loud in his ears but he ignored his discomfort. The PA system didn't help with the noise problem either.

"Unexpected item in bagging area," the machine sang out loudly. "Please try again." John sighed. He should have expected this really.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock backpedaled quickly and wove to the right to avoid the Saracen's sword swipe. Maybe he should have gone with John, he thought briefly. Then again if he'd gone with John the assassin would have followed and John would have been in danger. That was unacceptable.

He straightened and twisted to the left before ducking to avoid the wild swing at his head. This was rather dull. The man was obviously frustrated with his ducking and dodging and so was becoming less focused and easier to avoid. He was telegraphing his movements quite openly.

Sherlock fell back onto the sofa and kicked out with his foot to the man's chest when he brought his sword up to slash down at him. Really how utterly obvious.

His kick sent the man flying across the room. Sherlock jumped to his feet, pulled his jacket back down and followed.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John slowly ran the barcode of the lettuce over the scanner again. "Item not scanned," the machine told him. "Please try again."

He straightened and glared at the machine. "Do you think you could maybe keep your voice down?" He asked it angrily. The shoppers behind him were glaring at him enough already.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sehrlock bent backwards over the table his hands wrapped around the assassins on the blade. The man was intent on slicing his throat and Sherlock was just as intent on not letting him.

Using his knee he hit the man three times in the side. The assassin finally fell over from the hits and the tip of the sword gouged the table. Sherlock really hoped that John and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John carefully, deliberately input his pin number into the number pad. This was not a good day. Not at all and with his luck it was going to…

"Card not authorized."

…do that.

John flared at the machine. It remained unmoved by his glare. "Please use an alternative method of payment."

"Yes, all right, I've got it." John said loudly over the feminine voice of the machine. He shifted from foot to foot for a moment.

"Card not authorized." The machine told him again. John looked at the man waiting behind him, hoping for some sign of sympathy but there was none. He cleared his throat. "Please use and alternative method of payment."

John cursed under his breath and put his hand up to the machine in the universal stop gesture. "Keep it," he said loudly. "Keep that." He walked away.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock calculated the time while he ducked around the swinging sword. John would be home soon. This fight was taking longer than necessary. Time to end it. "Look!" He shouted and pointed behind the assassin.

Really, he thought, human nature was so disappointing. He'd been utterly disbelieving when John had taught him that trick years ago. But time and experimentation had proven John's words completely true. Yell and point and the masses will follow the finger. Irritated Sherlock deliver a swift and sharp uppercut to the assassin's chin, knocking the other man unconscious and into John's chair.

He smoothed his hair and straightened his jacket. "Now to take the trash out. And John says I never do any housework."

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John was three minutes earlier than expected and Sherlock had just settled in his chair with a book when he heard John's stomping on the stairs. He was in a bad mood again. He'd walked faster to try and drive off some of his energy which was why he was early. From the ferocity of his stomping that hadn't been effective.

John walked through the door and looked around as though searching for something. Sherlock felt a brief moment of panic that John would know about the Saracen. He quelled it immediately. There was no way for John to know. He wasn't nearly as observant as Mycroft or himself. John couldn't know. "You took your time," he said instead, hiding behind the book just in case.

John's head snapped around to him. "Yeah, I didn't get the shopping," he bit out.

Sherlock raised his eyes to regard his husband over the top of his book. "What? Why not?" This was really not going to be a good day for John's temper. They had been out of milk earlier when John had wanted tea. He was going to be grumpy until he got to drink his tea. No shopping meant no milk which meant no tea. Not good.

John's shoulders tensed in that soldier type way. "Because I had a row in the shop," he drawled in a furious tone. "With a chip and pin machine." He said it in that John way that said he knew how ridiculous it sounded and didn't care.

Sherlock let the book fall a bit farther. "You had a row with a machine?" He questioned.

The tips of John's ears went red. "Sort of," he shifted his stance a bit even know that it was a red flag to Sherlock. His husband would know that he was now embarrassed by his own behavior. "It sat there and I shouted abuse." Hazel eyes met gray as Sherlock bit back his grin and only allowed a smirk to crease his lips. "Have you got cash?"

"Take my card," Sherlock offered nodding to his wallet on the table. John frowned at the amusement in his voice but didn't say anything.

John gave him a level look but walked over to pick up the wallet from the table. He turned suddenly at the doorway to the kitchen. "You could always go yourself." He said in a falsely cheery voice. "You know, you've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left." John finished making his way to the table. "What happened about that case you were offered, the Jaria diamond?" He pulled Sherlock's debit card from his wallet.

Sherlock flipped the pages of his book and surreptitiously watched John's back. "Not interested," he said blandly. There had been too much risk to John in that case. He shut the book and used his foot to push the assassin's sword further under his chair hoping John would ignore the small clink. "I sent them a message."

John sighed, put the wallet back on the table and inspected the new gouge in the kitchen table. Right. Sherlock was keeping secrets again. Suddenly John was far too tired to deal with it today. He knew the Saracens had sent someone to 'convince' Sherlock which would be why Sherlock sent him for the shopping. Fine. It was all fine.

He left the flat again without another word to Sherlock. Sherlock watched him go with a regretful expression. It couldn't be helped though. John had to stay safe.


	3. The Bank

**Disclaimer: Did some more research. You know, I used to like doing research. Prowling through old dusty tomes, finding little known obscure facts, it was great. Now, not so much. I don't like it when my research doesn't tell me what I want it too. The fictional characters belong to the person who imagined them and had their adventures published unless you buy the rights to said characters. I'm poor. I can't afford to buy the rights to Lestrade. So I guess I'm back to the kidnapping plan. So I guess they're still not mine.**

**A/N: So how do you like it so far? As good as the others? God I hope so. Let me know.**

**The Bank**

Sherlock studied the computer screen before him. This case should hold a minimum of danger for John. But, he didn't really want to help Sebastian out. He couldn't stand the slimy jerk. Still, it was something to do. He heard John thumping up the stairs again and the rustle of the bags in his hands. At least John would be safe with this one.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage," John called in a significantly more cheerful tone than he'd had earlier.

Sherlock tilted his head towards his husband but John didn't trek across the room for the normal kiss to his head. So not in a completely better mood yet. Disappointing but not unexpected. He read the e-mail again.

He heard John thump the bags on the table and turn to look at him. "Is that my computer?" He asked.

Sherlock set his hands on the keyboard to type out his response. He knew he had to be quick. John was going to nabbed the computer back because he was in a strop. "Of course."

"Sherlock," John growled. "I've asked you to leave it alone when I'm using it. I had my blog almost finished. Did you even save it?"

Sherlock ignored that. Of course he had saved John's blog. He'd even edited it. "Mine was in the bedroom," he explained instead.

John shrugged out of his coat. "What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" He paused and glared. "It's a new password, Sherlock! I was sure you wouldn't get it this time."

Sherlock smirked. "Really John, Mycroft loves his Molly is a password I wouldn't deduce? It took me less than a minute. It wasn't exactly like trying to break into Fort Knox."

John scowled, threw his coat on the chair and slapped the laptop closed, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers. He grabbed it up and held it to his chest protectively. "Right, thank you." He set it on the floor by his chair and sat down.

Sherlock sighed and went back to thinking. At least John had waited long enough for him to send confirmation to Sebastian. Working with Sebastian was going to be an exercise in patience but he'd manage it somehow. It was for John after all.

John picked up the pile of mail on the table by his chair. Bills. Past due notices. Dammit! He'd forgotten to pay them. Why hadn't Sherlock remembered? Oh, right. Mycroft told him he'd been making sure the power and water and other necessities had been on while he'd been gone. Sherlock would delete that information faster than anything except pop culture.

"I need to get a job," John said more to himself than Sherlock. Really, staying cooped up in this flat was messing up his brain.

Sehrlock snorted. "Oh, dull."

John leaned forward in his chair. "I can't keep sitting here doing nothing, Sherlock. It's driving me mad. I've even forgotten to pay the bills this month." He paused and folded his hands together. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank," he said instead of answering. Without another word he stood up and headed out the door.

John followed him with his eyes for a moment and then jumped up to follow him.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John stared up at the imposing edifice built to impress and shook his head. This wasn't what he'd thought Sherlock meant. This wasn't actually a bank per se. It was an international trading company.

He followed Sherlock through the revolving door. "Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…" he conveniently forgot that Sherlock had said 'I' and not 'we'.

Sherlock didn't say anything just took John's arm and led him to the escalators. Sherlock kept his eyes open and noticed all the different clocks on the walls. They were all digital and gave the times for cities all over the world. He noted the pass cards to get through certain doors. They came to the top and Sherlock steeled himself for the confrontation coming with Sebastian. There was no other way to word it. Sebastian was an arse and Sherlock really didn't want to expose his husband to the other man but it couldn't be helped.

He strode to the long counter. "Sherlock Holmes," he said simply to the girl in front of him.

John gave him a confused look and he gave him a reassuring smile in return.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sebastian, of course, made them wait. He'd e-mailed Sherlock for assistance but he forced them to wait on his schedule. It was a power play that Sherlock did not appreciate.

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice had John turning from the wall screen he'd been reading to the man with the obvious comb over and too white teeth. Just the sight of him had John on alert. He didn't like him.

"Sebastian," Sherlock greeted and stuck his hand out for a shake. That was the politest that John had seen Sherlock in forever. Who was this man and why was Sherlock being sort of nice to him?

The phony grin irritated John even more. "How you doing, buddy?" That voice was even worse. The man clasped both of his hands around Sherlock's. "How long's it been, eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock's gray eyes never flickered. "This is my…friend, John Watson." Oh, well, that hurt. That hurt a lot.

"Friend?" Sebastian asked in an amused and disbelieving tone.

"Colleague," John corrected before he could stop himself. Sherlock's eyes flashed with disappointment and Sebastian's smile became smug. John reached out to shake the man's hand with a bland look though the smirk irritated him.

"Right." Sebastian said. He turned away from them and Sherlock shot John a strange look that he ignored. "Grab a pew." John followed him quickly to escape that laser like stare. "Do you need anything? Coffee, water?" Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Mm-mm," John hummed. He wouldn't trust anything from this man anyway.

"No?" Sebastian walked around the desk and flopped into his chair. Really, Sherlock's flopping was so much more elegant. "We're all sorted here, thanks," Sebastian flapped his hand at the secretary hovering in the door. She left the office as John and Sherlock sat in the seats in front of Sebastian's desk.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair and gazed around the office for a moment. "So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

There was a flash of irritation in Sebastian's eyes and then the smug smile was back. "Well, some."

Sherlock crinkled his brow in a fake look of surprise. "Flying all the way round the world, twice in a month."

Sebastian let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Right," he chuckled. "You're doing that thing." He pointed one finger at Sherlock for emphasis. He looked over at John. "We were at uni together and this guy here had this trick he used to do." He folded his hands in front of his face, elbows propped on the chair arms.

John could almost feel the force of Sherlock's frown but he made no move to comfort his husband knowing it would be unwelcome in front of this man but not knowing why. "It's not a trick," Sherlock said softly and clearly.

Sebastian of course simply kept talking as though Sherlock had said nothing. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John said in an admiring tone. Sherlock may not want to be defended right now but angry with him or not John would do what he could.

Sebastian still kept talking. John realized that he was one of those people that was deliberately obtuse. Wouldn't hear anything he didn't want to. "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him." His laugh invited John to join in his mocking. John only gave him a level look. But Sebastian ignored that too. "You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night." John's frown deepened. He really didn't like anyone using that term for his husband. Sgt. Sally was a special case.

"I simply observed," Sherlock refuted.

"Go on, enlighten me," Sebastian pushed. "'Two trips a month flying all the way around the world.' You're quite right. How could you tell?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but Sebastian didn't give him the chance. He grinned over at John again. A grin that said 'just look at this freak thinking it's normal'. John frowned fiercely, but was ignored again. "You're going to tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

Now John almost did laugh. That would be such a Sherlock thing to say and he'd be right about it too. "No, I…" Sherlock started.

"Or it was the mud on my shoes," Sebastian continued with a head shake and wide eyes. He turned back to Sherlock.

"I was just chatting with your secretary outside," Sherlock drawled in a bored voice. "She told me."

John shot him a confused look. Sherlock hadn't chatted with anyone while they'd awaited Sebastian's arrival. The fire in Sherlock's gray eyes explained the statement though. He was winding Sebastian up. Fun.

Sebastian laughed. Sherlock forced his lips into a parody of a smile. Sebastian clapped his hands together in forced delight. He drew in a breath and seemed to become serious. "I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer and then motioned him to go on. Sebastian rose to his feet and gestured them to follow.


	4. The Case

**Disclaimer: So the kidnapping plan. Not so good. I'd have to be able to find a fictional character first. Lestrade is imaginary. So I'll have to come up with something else. Well, my mom always said I can do anything if I believe in it enough. So…yeah, it's worth a try at least.**

**A/N: To those loyal and not so loyal readers that are wondering: I only follow canon when I want to. The Honey 'Verse stories are not canon. This is a Honey 'Verse version of The Blind Banker. Not canon. Close. Closer than most of my Honey 'Verse but not canon. Yes, it'll be a lot like the show but there are changes. Big ones, little ones and even in between ones. I hope you all enjoy it and I thank you for reading and reviewing.**

**The Case**

"Sir William's office," Sebastian told them as he led the way down the corridor of cubicles. "The bank's former chairman." He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. "His room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" John asked, know Sherlock wouldn't.

Sebastian looked over his shoulder at them again with a puzzled frown. "Nothing." He paused to regard them fully. "They just left a little message."

Sebastian stopped in front of an office door. He pulled a key card from his pocket and ran it over the reader. The reader beeped and then there was the buzz of the door unlocking. Sherlock's eyes darted over the office space outside, the cubicles, the people and everything else with a frown of concentration. John grimaced at the tiny spaces. How could anyone work like this?

The office was large. A roaring lion sat on the desk in front of a painting of a man. John didn't think that the yellow line of spray paint had been the artist's original intent. To the side of the painting was another shape spray painted on the wall. A strange half-finished figure eight with a line over the top of it. John had no idea what they meant and they had to mean something. People didn't paint on walls for no reason there was always a meaning behind the symbols.

Sherlock stared hard at the wall for a few moments before Sebastian pulled them from the room and down the hall back to his own office. Sherlock stared outside the windows thinking, while Sebastian went around the desk and pulled up the security footage from the night before to show them. "Sixty seconds apart," he said. John and Sherlock stood beside him and watched him click the camera view back and forth. A blank wall and picture and then exactly sixty seconds later the symbols were there. Sebastian stopped clicking and put his hands in his trouser pockets. "So someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "How many ways into that office?" He asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting," Sebastian said in a low mysterious tone. He walked off down the hallway to the front desk. He motioned the girl out of the way and pulled her keyboard towards him. "Every door that opens in this bank," he tapped the keyboard to bring up the schematics. The screen showed the floor with a red dot for every door. "It gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet." He leaned over and scrolled the mouse to show the rest of the building.

"That door didn't open last night?" Sherlock half asked, half told.

Sebastian straightened the lapels of his suit jacket and rebuttoned it. "There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you," he promised. "Five figures." He reached into the left side of his jacket on the inside, near his heart and withdrew a check. He looked down at it in his hand. "This is an advance." He turned to Sherlock, ignoring John as most people did. "Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way," he held the check out to Sherlock at chin level.

Sherlock gave it a slight frown. Sebastian didn't know that the discussion of payment always disgusted Sherlock. He was not a hired hand. Let John take care of the finances. He liked that part anyway. "I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," he told the other man. He knew John would pluck the check from Sebastian's hands before the man could blink. He passed by the man with a quick hand along John's back. He liked touching John.

John gave him a half nod and turned to Sebastian once Sherlock was away. "He's uh…he's kidding you obviously," John told the taller man and plucked the check from his fingers. "I'll just look after this for him shall I?" Sebastian shrugged with a smirk. "Thanks." John eyed the figure and let out a shaky breath. They'd make rent the next few months without worry. That was good. That was very good.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock made his way back to Sir William's office and lifted his phone. There was something here. Something that was not quite right. These symbols were more than just graffiti. He eyed them as his camera phone clicked the symbols into the memory card.

He turned his back on the painting and graffiti so that he could run the symbols through the files in his mind. There had to be a meaning to them. Now he just had to find it. The sun glinting off of the top of the oval shaped roof across the way distracted him and his eyes narrowed.

It couldn't possibly be that easy, that boring. But it apparently was. Sherlock unlatched the window and stepped onto the ledge. He let the breeze that was always at places this high above the city ruffle his hair as he thought. Yes, a message, the symbols were a message. But for whom?

Sherlock danced around the trading floor, popping up and down behind people, peering around the pillars and generally making a nuisance of himself. He ignored the startled and confused looks, not caring for what the idiots thought of him. Finally he backed into an open office door and then whirled around to stand behind the desk. From there he could see the painted out eyes of the painting. Perfect. He looked around to identify the owner of the office and finally went to the nameplate at the door. Edward Van Coon. Hong Kong Desk Head. Perfect.

He pulled the paper with the name from the plate and headed off to retrieve his husband.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"'Two trips around the world this month,'" John started as they walked towards the front entrance of the bank side by side. "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him." Sherlock smirked. Of course he had and of course John, his John, would pick up on it. "How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock asked.

"His watch?" John returned. He frowned and cursed himself. He knew better than to let details like that slip by him. Apparently he was more out of practice than he'd thought. Though in his own defense he had been rather distracted by his own anger and Sebastian's supercilious attitude.

"The time was right but the date was wrong," Sherlock explained in his 'how did you miss it' tone. "It said two days ago."

"So he crossed the International Date Line twice and didn't fix his watch," John nodded. That was plausible and knowing Sherlock exactly what Sebastian had done. "But how did you know that Sebastian had done that in the past month?"

"New Breitling," Sherlock informed him with the air of someone who thought that was almost too obvious for words.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Only came out this February."

John chuffed a laugh. "Well if I'd known you'd wanted one, I'd have called Mycroft."

Sherlock glared. "Not funny."

"Right," John grinned and tapped his fingers on the escalator. "So have you solved it or should we look around some more?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," Sherlock answered with a distracted tone. "That graffiti was a message."

"I had deduced that on my own, Sherlock," John said dryly. "Who was the message to though?"

"Obvious. The message is for someone working on the trading floor. We find the intended recipient and…"

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finished. "You know there were 300 people up there…you know who it was meant for."

Sherlock smirked over his shoulder at him. John was much quicker than other people and he loved him for it. "Pillars," he said slowly and simply hoping John would make the connection.

John thought for a moment with his eyes narrowed and then his tense muscles relaxed. "The message could only be seen from one place because of the pillars and the computer screens," he said quietly.

"And, of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night," Sherlock continued.

"Traders come to work at all hours because of the time differences around the world."

"Quite, some of them even trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came into work at midnight," Sherlock held the door for John and then walked down the sidewalk beside him. "Not many Van Coons in the phone book." He held up the paper to show John and then almost ran a few steps to the kerb. "Taxi!"

Of course, John shook his head. His husband had magical taxi powers and one had stopped before John had even caught up to him. It was only two steps to the kerb. Off to Van Coon's then.


	5. Edward Van Coon

**Disclaimer: She lied! Vicious, vicious, wicked lies! I believed and believed and prayed and hoped and wished and I still don't have a Lestrade of my very own. Sometimes I really don't like my mother.**

**A/N: Yes, yes, I should have put a warning for spoilers but really? Seriously? Did you really need me to do that? I mean, come on, the title is The Blind Banker…that should have given you some warning that there were spoilers ahead. Fine! If you insist, there are spoilers for the BBC show Sherlock contained in this story. Major spoilers. Seriously. I pretty much followed the script for the show and added my own twist to things. Jeez.**

**Edward Van Coon**

The cab ride passed in silence. John studied the scenery and Sherlock studied John. Both were far too wrapped up in their own thoughts to bother with conversation.

John knew he needed to talk to Sherlock. Just talk. Tell his husband that the coddling had gone on long enough. That he was fit and prepared to do things the way they'd done them before. He just couldn't bring himself to say the words. How did one tell their partner that they were feeling smothered? Even Mycroft, the quintessential big brother, had slacked off his over protectiveness.

He knew better than to let his resentment fester. But Sherlock should have been able to deduce him. A lifetime with John should have taught him something of the older man's moods. He hadn't though. Had they fallen that out of touch with each other? Was their marriage that much of a mockery? John swallowed that thought. It wasn't a farce and it wasn't a mockery. He loved Sherlock more than anything, more than words could ever possibly express. He just needed to remember that and everything would be fine.

Sherlock soaked up the sight of his husband. A sight that had been denied him for so very long. He loved to just look at John, take in every nuance of his expressions and store them away for later viewing. Though he wasn't too happy with this expression. John was frowning, again. It felt like John had been frowning forever. He hadn't seen one of John's truly delighted, bright smiles in ages. Why was John always frowning?

He didn't like it when John was unhappy. He would do anything to make John smile again. He'd tried quite a few different plans and none of them had worked. Sure, John would smile but it always held a tinge of sadness to it. Why was John sad?

This whole situation was a distraction and Sherlock hated to be distracted from the Work. He would have to either ignore the situation or fix it. As he had no clue what the problem was then he'd just force himself to ignore it. It would either resolve itself or John would finally tell him what was wrong.

"John," he said softly and watched John's muscles tense. "We're here," the cab slowed to a stop and Sherlock got out.

It was rather nice, Sherlock thought, to have someone else worry about the cab fare. He was never sure if they were cheating him or not. He didn't care to memorize cab fares to the different places about London that he frequented much less the ones he only went to occasionally. He listened to the warm murmur of John's voice speaking with the cabbie. A newer development following the Hope thing. John believed that a bit of politeness would be more appreciated and help less cabbies follow the way of Hope. Probably futile but harmless all the same and actually helpful. They had cabbies that would routinely come for them making the chances of a serial killer cabbie taking them anywhere far less.

"Thanks, Nolan," John called as he emerged and moved to stand beside Sherlock at the bank of call buttons on the wall.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer, waited a few seconds and then pressed it again, for longer, when there was no answer. John shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and regarded the irritated expression on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock took a step backwards, tilted his head and stared up at the building. "So what do we do now?" John asked, really hoping the answer wasn't break in. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sehrlock brought his head back down and gazed at John with those laser eyes and then took a step toward him, crowding him, though John refused to step back away. "Just moved in," Sherlock told him.

"What?" John spluttered, his body reacting in a normal way to his husband's proximity.

Sherlock shot out a hand with one finger pointed to the call box. "Floor above. New label." Wintle was written on a piece of paper and stuck inside the protector next to the buzzer.

"Could have just replaced it," John pointed out.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer with a roll of his eyes. "No one ever does that," he countered. He let go of the buzzer.

"Hello?" Asked a female voice from the call box.

"Hi!" Sherlock put on his most clueless male voice and answered her. "Um…I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met."

"No, well, I've just moved in," she claimed. Sherlock shot a smug, triumphant smile at John. John's fingers itched to smack it from his face and his glower must have been thunderous because Sherlock shuddered a bit and turned back to the callbox, clearing his throat nervously.

"Actually I've just locked my keys in my flat," Sherlock said in an anxious tone that wasn't completely faked. John could be very scary at times and that glower was high on the list of things Sherlock feared. It meant that John was supremely unhappy with him. There were only two higher levels of glare that he'd ever seen directed at him and one of them was from the acid incident.

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" The woman, Ms. Wintle, offered immediately.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" Ms. Wintle asked and John was tempted to echo it but held off as he had a very good idea why Sherlock wanted to use her balcony. His husband was going to cause him a heart attack, just see if he didn't.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock Holmes was not afraid of heights. There were very few things he was afraid of. Losing John was top of that list. Heights didn't even make it onto the paper. But there was something very different about planning to jump off a balcony. Even with all of his calculations it could end with him splattered on the pavement four stories below. Still it had to be done and it was only a few feet from the bottom of Ms. Wintle's balcony to Edward Van Coon's. He was very glad he'd told John to wait in the hallway by Van Coon's door for him though.

Bracing himself for the adventure he swung over the balcony and dropped lightly onto Van Coon's. He frowned to himself. That was spectacularly anticlimactic. Boring.

He leaned over the balcony to stare down at the street. It seemed much closer now. Strange. Still he was here for a reason and he'd better get to work. He'd scope the place out before he let John in though. Who knows what he'd find and he'd rather John stayed safely in the hall.

He pressed the handle for the balcony doors and found it unlocked. Really, people were such idiots. They thought that just because they were three floors up that no one could get into their flat from the balcony. Stupid.

The balcony doors led into a parlour furnished in white. Dull. A stack of books was piled in front of the large flat screen television. Bachelor. Obvious. No woman would allow that big of a screen to rest so close to the sofa. Nor would she allow the books to pile up in such a disordered mess. He trailed into the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Bottles and bottles of champagne. The buzzer sounded just as he was closing the fridge door.

"Sherlock!" John yelled through the door and hit the buzzer over and over again. Sherlock slowly made his way towards the bedroom door peaking in other rooms as he went. "Sherlock, you okay?" John called again. Bathroom. He stopped in front of a pair of double doors. "Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in." Sherlock tried them but they were locked. He jiggled the handle again but they remained stubbornly closed. He hit them with his shoulder, continuing to ignore his husband's calls. Really he had to make sure it was safe first.

The door gave under the pressure of his shoulder. He'd found the bedroom and Van Coon. Of course the latter was very dead. Single bullet to the right temple, gun lying close to his hand. Well, this case just got a lot more interesting.


	6. Dimmock

**Disclaimer: I'm not mad at my mother anymore. I've decided that she is simply deliberately uninformed and sheltered. She did it to herself. She believes life is all roses and daisies and rainbows and unicorns. We'll let her believe that while we live in the real world no matter how painful it is. Which means that the characters aren't mine and likely never will be. Excuse me while I go pout and rail at the fates.**

**A/N: Okay, I was reading over the first chapter last night for inspiration and noticed some typos. You guys really need to alert me to these things. Usually I can catch myself when I spell Sherlock as Sehrlcok but I must have missed that one. Anyway even if you don't catch my mistakes I'd still love to hear from you. On with the story.**

**Dimmock**

Sherlock bore the intrusion of the police into the flat with reluctance but bore it he did. He watched the crime scene photographer like a hawk as he recorded the scene and snapped on the gloves. He may not wear the suits that the Yard preferred but he also didn't want his fingerprints anywhere near a dead body that wasn't in the flat. Truthfully he'd never brought an entire body home so the point was moot. He only experimented on the parts.

"Do you think he'd lost a lot of money?" John asked distracting Sherlock from his watchfulness. John's voice was slightly resentful and he'd crossed his arms over his chest to indicate his displeasure at being left in the hall. "I mean suicide is pretty common among City boys." He knew that it wasn't a suicide but he also knew that Lestrade wasn't coming this time and Sherlock would need to be able to explain things to the DI assigned to the case.

Sherlock gave him an irritated glare for the distraction and moved to stalk past him. "We don't know that it was a suicide." He knelt down by the wall next to a suitcase.

"Come on, the door was locked from the inside," John refuted. He knew how much Sherlock relished a locked room mystery. "You had to climb down the balcony." And wouldn't that give him nightmares for months to come?

Sherlock didn't even look up from the suitcase that he was perusing. "Been away three days, judging by the laundry." He stood up and gazed at his husband. John was refusing to even look at him now. "Look at the case," he said impatiently. "There was something tightly packed inside it."

John glanced over at him and then away. "Thanks I'll take your word for it." His arms stayed firmly across his chest.

This was getting very old, Sherlock thought. He scowled at the back of John's head. "Problem?"

John slanted him a glance that spoke of irritation and embarrassment. "Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

Ah! Sherlock's expression smoothed out. One of those social convention thingies that John was always whittering on about then. Nothing to worry over. "Those symbols at the bank," he changed the subject. "The graffiti, why were they put there?"

John sighed. "It was some sort of code," hadn't he said that already? Sherlock hated to repeat himself but he was perfectly happy forcing John to do so over and over again while his gigantic brain whirled through facts and theories.

Sherlock was leaning over the body now. "Obviously." He picked up Van Coon's hand, inspecting it. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," it wasn't a stretch to think of that. Many people, Sherlock, ignored their mobiles when it suited them.

Sherlock rifled through the dead man's jacket. "Oh good, you follow."

"No," John shook his head. He really wasn't this time. Someone had sent Van Coon a message, that much he understood why they had sent it and why they had spray painted it on an office wall and painting he had no clue.

Sherlock glanced up from his inspection of Van Coon's other hand to John and then back down with a disappointed expression. "What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" The kind they don't want to hear, John thought immediately but didn't voice. "What about this morning, those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills?" John replied uncertainly. No cable company was going to graffiti over a painting at a bank over a late payment.

John grimaced as Sherlock put his fingers in Van Coon's mouth and then his expression turned to shock as his husband pulled something from the dead man's throat. "Yes, he was being threatened," Sherlock said with relish.

John leaned in for a closer looking at the thing from Van Coon's mouth. "Not by the gas board," he said lowly.

Sherlock put the black flower thing in an evidence bag and quirked a smile at John. Sometimes John said the most surprising things. That was actually quite funny.

Voices interrupted one of the few moments when Sherlock and John had been in complete accord for ages.

"…get prints off this glass," a relatively young voice was ordering. John and Sherlock looked up and then straightened and turned to face the newcomer.

"Ah, Sergeant, we haven't met," Sherlock was well aware that this man wasn't a sergeant but John had been looking fond and happy and now he was back to his bland expression and it was this man's fault. Sherlock strode forward, hand outstretched for a shake but the younger man put his hands on his hips and glared at him.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the man said belligerently. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." The younger, shorter man didn't waver from Sherlock's eyes. Most did. Most had to look away from him, discomfited by his stare. Like Lestrade all those years ago this man held his gaze steadily. Sherlock held out the evidence bag. The man took it and finally broke the stare.

Still it wouldn't do to let this young man become too comfortable. "I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy," he was told in a cold tone. "I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." He turned and left the room.

"Greg took Joanne and the kids away for a holiday, remember?" John whispered as they followed Dimmock.

"Why?" Sherlock whispered back.

"Colleen passed all her tests," John told him in an exasperated tone. Sherlock frowned. "It's just what you do," John shrugged. "We took you to Italy, remember?"

Sherlock nodded distractedly. That had been an interesting week. Fun too.

They had returned to the parlour and Dimmock handed the baggie off to one of the techs dusting the sofa. "We're obviously looking at a suicide," he said.

"That does seem to be the only explanation of all the facts," John said. He knew it wasn't but he also knew that Sherlock would correct him and since it was _John_ that had said it he'd explain everything in a clear order instead of just calling everyone around him idiots and storming off on his own to solve the case with no input from anyone.

"Wrong," Sherlock shot out with a frown at the wall. Really, why was John being so very obtuse today? "It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it." John was keeping his head down and his eyes on the ground. He'd just been manipulated by his husband. Clever John. Suddenly Sherlock felt much lighter.

Dimmock stared at him in confusion. "Like?"

"The wounds on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed. It requires quite a bit of contortion." Sherlock waved his arms around as though he held an invisible gun in his left hand to try and aim at his right temple. John bit his lip to stifle the giggles.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock bit out.

Sherlock suddenly seemed to grow bored. "I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left-hand side," he pointed to the table. "Coffee mug handle pointing to the left." He waved towards the wall. "Power sockets habitually use the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone," Sherlock voice was picking up speed as he continued. "Because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

John closed his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back. "No, I think you've covered it." Dimmock's face was befuddled and beginning to show irritation. It was best to have Sherlock stop now before he completely alienated the new DI.

"I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock insisted. "There's a knife on the bread board with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." John scratched the back of his head, he'd missed that one. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head." Dimmock's hands were in his pockets now and he was nodding to everything Sherlock said. "Conclusion: Someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts." He turned his head to John with a level look.

"But the gun—" Dimmock started.

"He was waiting for the killer," Sherlock brushed that off. "He'd been threatened." Sherlock walked away.

"What?" Dimmock asked astounded. Sherlock was already off across the room collecting his scarf.

"Today at the bank," John supplied. "Sort of a warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock rejoined the conversation while throwing his coat on.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asked pointedly.

"Went through the open window." John nodded, yes, it would have as that had to be the entry point that the killer used.

"Oh, come on!" Dimmock snorted disbelievingly. "What are the chances of that?"

Sherlock drew his gloves out of his coat pocket and started to pull them on. "Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it." John stared between the two for a moment before moving slightly in Sherlock's direction. A clear indication of belief in his husband.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in." Dimmock protested. Sometimes John could completely understand why Sherlock despaired of humanity.

"Good," Sherlock breathed out in an admiring tone. Maybe there was hope for Dimmock after all. "You're finally asking the right questions." Not that he was going to answer it. He turned and strode out the door.

John watched that coat flare for a moment, looked over at Dimmock's gob smacked expression and then followed his husband from the flat.


	7. Telling Sebastian

**Disclaimer: Okay am finished railing at the fates but not done pouting. I quite like pouting. It's good exercise. Incidentally did you know that you exercise more muscles by smiling than you do by frowning? It's true. Nice little tidbit to know before I frown some because the characters still aren't mine.**

**A/N: Okay, I seem to be making these little notes quite a bit the past few days. For those of you wondering: John is angry with Sherlock because Sherlock is being an overprotective prick. John is very glad to be home and alive and he still loves Sherlock very much but Sherlock is being stupid in a very Sherlock way. The Blind Banker takes place just before my story 'The Consequences of Overprotectiveness and Insecurity' where all this resentment and anger come to a head and get resolved so yes, John is going to be a bit stroppy through this whole story. Besides, watch the episode. John's rather stroppy in it too. See? On with the story.**

**Telling Sebastian**

Sebastian Wilkes was entertaining some business associates and doing a fine job of it if he did say so himself. His jokes and funny stories seemed to be a big hit with these men. "So he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork," he laughed at the stupidity and so did the other men around the table. At least this very expensive lunch was going on his work account so he needn't worry about the price or how much alcohol they were all consuming. "Which of course can never be done."

"It was a threat," the irritating voice broke through the laughter of what had been a rather pleasant lunch. "That's what the graffiti meant."

Sebastian looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Prick, and saw that funny little man still trailing behind him. Sherlock had called him a friend though the little man had denied that quickly enough. He frowned at the pair. "I'm kind of in a meeting," he claimed and gestured at the three men around him with his spoon. He didn't notice the food that plopped from it making him look a bit stupid. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" He set the spoon down and lifted his water glass with a smug smirk. He was an Important Man and they really should realize that they were nothing more than the hired help.

Sherlock hissed in air through his teeth in that frankly irritating way he had. "I don't think this can wait," he said coldly. "Sorry Sebastian." There was a distinct air of untruth to that statement. The tall man adopted a regretful look. "One of your traders, someone who works in your office, was killed." There was no sign of remorse or sorrow in the detective's voice. He was simply sharing information.

Sebastian found himself swallowing though he didn't really particularly care about some trader from the bank. But the man beside him was watching for his reaction and he really did want that account for himself. "What?"

"Van Coon," that little 'friend' of Sherlock's informed him almost before he'd finished asking the question. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" Sebastian squeaked out.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock said insincerely.

The 'friend' gave Sebastian a level look that was nearly as irritating as Sherlock's entire existence. "Still want to make an appointment?"

"Would maybe nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" The irritant put his two pence in.

Sebastian set down his water glass, ran a finger around his collar, stood up, said his good-byes and apologies to the other men and led the way to the men's loo to have a conversation about a dead trader with the irritant and his little 'friend'.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sebastian allowed the water to run over his hands as he considered what to tell Sherlock about Van Coon. "Harrow, Oxford," he started. "Very bright guy," he lathered his hands with the soap. It was soothing. Normal while the conversation was anything but. "Worked in Asia, for a while so…"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finished when the silence stretched and it looked as though Sebastian would say no more. John crossed his arms over his chest again and leaned a hip on the sink beside Sebastian.

Sebastian nodded in a distracted way. "Lost five mil in a single morning, made it all back a week later." John noticed Sherlock suddenly sharpened gaze but didn't call attention to it. "Nerves of steel, yeah."

"Who'd want to kill him?" John fished.

"We all make enemies," Sebastian retorted with an unconcerned air.

"We don't all end up with a bullet through our temple," John refuted.

Sebastian straightened his suit jacket and opened his mouth to reply. His phone beeped and he pulled it out of the pocket. "Not usually. Excuse me," he opened the text message. "It's my chairman," he told them without taking his eyes off of the phone. "Police have been out to him." He finally took his eyes from the phone and gave Sherlock a haughty look. "Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

Sherlock shifted in agitation. "Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered."

Sebastian smirked a bit. He really didn't care one way or the other except that the police were irritating the irritant. That made him rather happy. He had called Sherlock in for the graffiti thing because he wanted to show the brat how much he had moved up in the world and this was just icing on the cake. It was nice to be able to prove that he was better than Sherlock Holmes for once. "Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," he told him in a superior tone.

"Seb," Sherlock tried to interrupt but Sebastian just steamrolled over him.

"And neither does my boss." Time to remind the irritant of his place in this relationship. "I hired you to do a job; don't get sidetracked," he sneered. He walked away and out the door of the loo.

Sherlock watched him go. He wasn't going to try and convince him of his own false assumptions. It would be a futile endeavor and not worth the time wasted on it.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," John said randomly. There was a small quirk to his lips that softened his expression and then he turned his head towards the door Sebastian had disappeared through.

Sherlock worked his jaw for a moment. John's funny little non sequiturs only served to remind him why _John_ was the only person on the entire planet that he made time for. The others were all boring and normal and idiots. Well, mostly. There were a few other humans who didn't make him want to scream loudly at them. Ben, Colleen, Joanne, Mrs. Hudson, and Mother. Even Mycroft, Molly, Kill and Lestrade made him want to choke them sometimes.

"Let's go home, Sherlock," John said gently. Sherlock nodded and held out his hand really needing a bit of comfort after Sebastian and his supercilious glances and total disregard for John. It was what he'd wanted, for Sebastian to mostly ignore John and leave him out of his venomous disdain but now it irritated him that Sebastian hadn't seen what a wonder John was. John took his hand in his own and smiled softly at him. "Come on. I'll make you some tea and toast."

"What if I don't want tea and toast?" Sherlock asked petulantly as he allowed John to pull him away.

"Then that would be sad for you," John grinned. "I had planned on using some of the honey Jawahir had sent and if you don't want any then I can use it for myself."

Sherlock immediately brightened and began walking a bit faster, pulling John along out of the restaurant.


	8. A Journalist in Peril

**Disclaimer: Okay I'm done pouting…I think…nope not quite. Sorry. They still aren't mine and it makes me very sad. **

**A/N: Man this is taking me longer to write than 'A Study in Pink' did. I think it's because I don't like writing an angry, resentful John. It just isn't really in him to be so and yet it fits the story…mostly. Oh, well here's today's attempt. Let me know what you think.**

**A Journalist in Peril**

He ran the night air cold in his laboring lungs. He knew that it was probably futile, that he would eventually be caught and killed or tortured for a reason he had no clue about. Yet still he ran. He had too. He couldn't just sit and let them take him.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder as he raced across a busy street. Car horns honked at him but he paid them no mind. He had to get away. He couldn't see anyone but that didn't mean they weren't there. Waiting. Following. Chasing. They would catch him. They would capture him and kill him. He needed to run. Faster.

He ran down the street, ignoring the cars and glancing backwards ever so often. Still nothing. But he couldn't slow down. If he slowed down they'd catch him. If he allowed himself to slow down he would be as good as dead.

He scuttled off the street and across a path in a park. He race around a stone barrier, nearly barking his shin on it before he righted himself and kept going. He had to run. He needed to get away. It was the only thought he had.

He hugged the book to his chest and fumbled into his entryway, digging for his keys as he went. He had made it home. Would it help? Would they leave in disgust now? Would they let him live?

He slammed the door shut behind him with a bang of the knocker but didn't stop running quite yet. He spun up the stairs, past the other flats in his building and to his own. He nearly dropped his keys in his haste to get the door open but managed to fit it in the lock finally.

He slammed that door shut behind him too. And locked it tight. He tossed the book onto the stairs with all of the others and raced to the top.

He was halfway through his front room when he stopped suddenly. He let out a breathless whimper and slowly turned around. His eyes went wide and had he the breath to do so he would have screamed.


	9. Andy

**Disclaimer: Well, not pouting anymore. Promise. They still aren't mine but I suppose I'll learn to live with that. No, no I won't. Never have been very good at quitting. I decided a long time ago to quit quitting. Only kind of quitting I've ever accomplished. **

**A/N: I know the last one was super short. So is this one. That's why they're both being posted on the same day. See? There is a method to my madness.**

**Andy**

Andy ran the brush lightly over the vase he was restoring. It was delicate work but he liked doing it. The dust was slowly disappearing. It was an interesting feeling. This sense of accomplishment. He hadn't crafted the vase. He hadn't rescued the vase like some TV treasure hunter. All he was doing was a bit of restoration work. Yet he felt as though he really done something important. Something that people would notice and be awed by.

He barely glanced up when his boss stopped by his desk. His entire being was focused on this tiny bit of this vase. He only had a bit more to go and he'd be done. "I need you to get over to Crispian's," she told him, breaking his concentration. She leaned on the table beside him and watched him until he looked up at her.

Andy carefully removed his gloved hands from the vase and let himself look at her. He quirked a brow questioningly.

She set the file she was holding down on the table and opened it for him to see. "Two Ming vases up for auction, Chenghua." She pointed them out to him in the pictures. "Will you appraise them?"

Andy took the file and looked the vases over. "Uh," he stuttered. "Soo Lin should go. She's the expert," he pointed out and offered the file back.

She gave him a look halfway between pity and exasperation. "Soo Lin has resigned her job." She didn't move a muscle to take the pictures and file back. "I need you." She gave him a level look and then walked away.

Andy tapped the file against his hand for a moment and then turned his head to take in the unfinished work on Soo Lin's table. She would never leave it her teapots broken into shards. She would have finished piecing them back together first. Something wasn't right here.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

He liked the way Soo Lin had written her name on the plate for the call button. It was whimsical and elegant. Like her. He pressed the button with a slight smile for the thought. He let go of the buzzer after a second and put his cold hands in his pockets. It was a bit brisk today and he could see his breath fogging the air.

When she didn't answer after a few moments he took a step back and looked up past the storefront of a shop called 'The Lucky Cat' to the flats above. He calculated which one was hers but couldn't determine if she was home or not.

His fingers felt the hard edge of the paper in his pocket and he was struck by an idea. It was only an old envelope but it would have to do. He rooted around for a pen and then steadied the envelope in his hand to leave her a note.

He slipped it through the mail slot and stepped back again. Andy took another look up at her windows and then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

He never noticed the cat statue waving at him from the shop window.


	10. The Interview

**Disclaimer: So…right…nope, can't think of anything even halfway to being amusing and I have a strange sense of humor so I'll just say: Nope, not mine. Think I'd be messing about writing fanfics if they were?**

**A/N: Hopefully this chapter will be longer than the last two. Again sorry for the short chapters but hey, you got two chapters in one day out of the deal didn't you?**

**The Interview**

She stared down at the resume in her hands. It was an incredibly impressive document. She wondered why if he had so much experience and so much schooling this man had applied to work at a small surgery that was understaffed, underfunded, and overfilled with patients on any given day. Still, she could use him and he was kind of cute in a bristly hedgehog sort of way.

She did feel honor bound to warn him of the lack of real work for him though. "Just locum work," she told the short, pleasant man seated on the other side of her desk.

John had watched the rather pretty woman peruse his resume with patience. He knew that she would have questions about it. Most did. He knew that he could have landed a job anywhere he wanted, especially with Mycroft being who he was but he didn't want to work in a big hospital that would force him to have long hours. He also didn't really want to work for Mycroft at the moment. Mycroft would be perfectly understanding and accepting of his madcap life with Sherlock. In that he'd be the perfect choice. But…well, working for his pseudo big brother was a bit weird and Mycroft would pay him far too much for far too little; it would feel far too much like charity.

John sent her one of his 'I'm a doctor you can believe me' smiles. "No, that's fine." And it really was. He didn't want to have a regular job. It would leave Sherlock alone on far too many cases and that could be very bad.

Dr. Sarah Sawyer drew in a deep breath prepared to lose this excellent find of a doctor. "You're um," she paused for a moment as hazel eyes met her own light green ones. "Well, you're a bit overqualified."

John felt his mouth stretch a bit in a wider smile, a truer smile. Did she really think that he didn't know that already? Still it was nice to know that someone thought he was smart. He chased that thought from his brain. This was not the time or the place to dwell on his troubles with his husband. "Uh," John chuckled inviting her to share a joke with him. "I could always do with the money."

That she had not expected. How did a man like him become desperate enough for money that he'd take a locum job at her small surgery? It would be good to have him here though. "Well, we've got two away on holiday this week," Sarah tucked a nonexistent hair behind her ear and met his eyes, beautiful eyes really, again. "And one's just left to have a baby."

John stayed silent and nodded a bit at her. He sensed there was more she wanted to say. Would it be more discouragement? More warning that he really shouldn't even want this job?

"Might be a bit mundane for you," she told him honestly if a bit cautiously. She really hoped he decided to take the job. He was cute and well, she was lonely and overworked and he could help out with both issues, maybe.

John nearly snickered at the irony in that statement. She obviously didn't know his husband. "Ah, no," he disagreed. "Mundane is good sometimes." And it really was. Mundane would be a break from the normal madness that had been his life since he was all of five years old. "Mundane works."

Sarah nodded but didn't quite understand what he meant. She guessed it didn't really matter much whether she understood why he wanted mundane work. "It says here," she shook the resume a bit. "That you were a soldier."

John tried valiantly to stop himself from frowning. People learned that he had once been a soldier and then that was all they saw. "And a doctor," he replied a bit more coldly than he'd planned so he softened it with a self-deprecating smile.

She didn't seem to notice the bit of chill in his words. She folded her hands under her chin and regarded him from those pale green eyes for a moment before bending her neck to look back down at his resume. "Anything else you can do?" She asked him as her head popped back up in an attempt to catch his eyes again.

There were so very many ways he could answer that question. He could shoot a man through a closed window from across a courtyard. He could run over the rooftops of London with the ease of a trained circus performer. He could blow a giant bubble of bubble gum that was the size of his head to make Ben and Colleen laugh. He could perform surgery while under heavy fire from the enemy without breaking a sweat. He could make the best tea Sherlock had ever tasted. He could charm honey from an Afghan beekeeper. He could get his husband to eat when he didn't want too. There were so many other things he could do it would take him years to list it all and he really didn't think Dr. Sawyer wanted to know about any of them. "I uh, I learned the clarinet at school." Granted he'd been horribly bad at it and Sherlock had forbidden him from ever playing in the flat but still he had learned.

Dr. Sawyer laughed a bit. "Oh, I look forward to it." She grinned at him. "And the job is yours if you want it."

"I do, actually." He grinned at her. He was relieved and grateful. Now he'd have a bit of time away from the flat that was slowly driving him mad. Maybe now Sherlock would lay off a bit with the protectiveness. He didn't hold out much hope for that but it was a possibility. "I would really like that."

John stood and offered her his hand. Sarah took it. "Until tomorrow then?" She asked with a grin.

"Yes, thank you," John smiled again and turned to leave. "Oh, what time?"

"Surgery doors open at nine, so come about eight and we'll get you familiar with the routine and such."

"Brilliant," John said and left the office.

Sarah watched him go with a wistful look. He really was quite good looking when he smiled. And he seemed to be good natured and stable. She'd really like to pursue this relationship but he hadn't given off any signals that he'd even noticed her subtle flirting. It was maddening really. Ah, well there was always tomorrow.


	11. Another One

**Disclaimer: Right this moment my kitten Havoc is sitting on my lap begging for attention. He's a sweet kitty. Selfish but still sweet. He's just about the only thing I own besides my children and I've been told that owning another person is illegal. Why isn't it illegal to own an animal then? They're people too. Right so he's making a right nuisance of himself and I'll just say that I don't own the characters.**

**A/N: This fic is definitely longer than 'A Study in Pink' I mean I'm what less than half an hour into the episode and I already have nearly ten chapters. Right. Well there are a lot more POV switches in this one as compared to the first. I really hope you aren't minding the length. I know it's not really bothering me. I like to write. Let me know what you think of this chapter.**

**Another One**

Thousands of symbols flashed across his vision as he stared at the pictures of the defaced portrait. There was something about the symbols of the message that seemed familiar. Something that he should remember. It was irritating him that it was just out of his reach.

John would be able to help him. John would say something and it would spark the neurons in his brain and he'd make the connection he was looking for. But John wasn't here. John was off trying to land a job. He was being an idiot. Didn't he know that Sherlock needed him here?

It was stupid really. John didn't need a job they had more than enough money to pay the bills. John just didn't want to touch the trust fund their fathers had left either of them. Stupid. As soon as this case was finished Sherlock was going to sit him down and have a very long talk with him about pride and charity and stupidity.

He heard John's tread on the stairs to the flat. They were light and quick today. Guess he got the job then. Unsurprising they would have had to be mad to not hire him. Still it was an irritation. If John wanted a job so bad then he should have gone to Mycroft. Then, at least, he'd be available when Sherlock needed him.

John walked in through the kitchen and threw his jacket over the chair. "I said could you pass me a pen," Sherlock drawled. He knew it would irritate John because he'd only just come through the door but he didn't much care. John needed to see that Sherlock needed him around.

John took a few more steps into the room and nearer to Sherlock. He half turned to look towards the door as though looking for someone else. "What? When?" He asked when he didn't see anyone.

Sherlock continued to stare at the pictures on the mirror. "About an hour ago." That would irritate John as well. He always hated it when it seemed as though Sherlock was so far in his own head that he didn't notice John's presence or lack thereof. Sherlock always knew though he just didn't want to look as dependent as he knew he was.

But John only sighed and tossed the pen from the desk to him. "Didn't notice I'd gone out then?"

Oh, Sherlock had noticed and he hadn't been happy but he'd let it slide until the case was solved. John stepped up to stare at the pictures, unable to contain his own curiosity.

"I went to see about a job at that surgery," John informed in a suspiciously bland tone. He'd put his hands in his trouser pockets. Was he trying to hide the renewed trembling of his hand or was he keeping himself from picking up the pictures to study them a bit closer? The latter Sherlock decided.

"How was it?" Sherlock asked in an attempt to appear interested even though he knew he'd resent the stupid job.

John didn't take his eyes from the pictures on the mirror. "Great," he clicked his tongue and nodded to himself. "She's great."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment. Was John trying to make him jealous? He'd never done that before. Something new. "Who?" He asked in what he hoped was an uninterested tone.

John finally turned away from the mirror and looked at him. He affected a surprised 'that wasn't what I'd meant to say' look. "The job." He said simply.

"She?" Sherlock pressed. There was a flash in John's eyes. He was trying to make Sherlock jealous. Why? What purpose would this incomprehensible act serve? It would only make Sherlock testy and unreasonable.

John seemed to notice Sherlock's growing irritation and stared him in the eye. Sherlock relaxed subtly. Let John play his games. Those hazel eyes told him all he needed to know. John still loved him and so this woman didn't matter at all. "It." John said firmly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to communicate his annoyance with John's games and then tilted his head to the table. "Here, have a look."

"Hmm?" John hummed. He seemed to have dismissed whatever he had been attempting to tell Sherlock with this silly jealousy game and suddenly looked focused on the case. He moved to stand on Sherlock's other side, their shoulders brushing and looked down at the open webpage on the laptop that he just knew was his own again. "'The intruder that can walk through walls.'" John murmured as he quickly read through the article about a murdered journalist.

"Happened last night," Sherlock informed him as though he hadn't already noticed the date of the article. "Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

John's brain quickly made the connections and he let out a startled gasp. "God, you think…"

"He's killed another one," Sherlock whispered with a near reverential tone. It was rather brilliant. The two men seemingly had nothing in common aside from their gender and locale and yet they were both killed in the same manner and most likely by the same person. It was mind boggling.

"We'll have to tell Detective Inspector Dimmock, you know, Sherlock?" John told him softly as he continued to study the symbols dancing in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock startled and stared at his husband. "What? Why?" He very nearly whined at him. "He's a detective and if he can't figure this out then he doesn't deserve to be one."

"Because he's not Greg, Sherlock," John explained patiently. "He doesn't already know how absolutely bloody brilliant you are. You have to prove it to him. I have no doubt that Greg has told him but he's also probably heard from Anderson and a host of others. He hasn't ever seen you in action until yesterday. He was fairly receptive then. He's not going to just fall in line with whatever you say until you prove yourself to him."

"Fine," Sherlock said sulkily. "I'll cultivate this DI on my own merits instead of his daughter's trust. Though Lestrade wasn't all that easy to win over, remember?"

"Yes," John chuckled. "I don't think that Dimmock will be all that difficult. You were too busy showing off yesterday to see his face. He was impressed. I think he may even have a bit of a crush on you."

The tips of Sherlock's ears turned red and he glared at John for making him blush. "You're daft," he told him firmly. "Let's go." He stood and whirled on his coat before stalking out. John only laughed.


	12. At the Yard

**Disclaimer: Still a firm no on the ownership question. Sorry you'll have to go bother BBC yourselves. I'm a bit busy entertaining you.**

**A/N: Once again you're getting two chapters in one day because this one is shorter than I like. Let me know what you think.**

**At the Yard**

Dimmock was still new enough as a DI that he didn't rate his own office yet. He had the potential to become a very good investigator though. If he hadn't Sherlock would have walked away from Van Coon's apartment and hunted up Lestrade. He had no time to be messing about with fools. Luckily Dimmock was only an idiot and not a fool so Sherlock set himself the task of training him. John had approved of this plan first of course. Sherlock wouldn't do it if John thought there was something off about the new DI. His people instincts were rarely wrong.

Sherlock strode unerringly to Dimmock's desk. He'd never been there before but it wasn't hard to deduce where the new DI was set up. Especially not with him still sitting at it and staring at his computer screen intently. He found he much preferred Lestrade's office even as crowded as it could become. At least it had a door that could be shut to prevent the eavesdropping of nosy PCs and Detective Sergeants that were dating your best friend.

Before the Detective Inspector could even acknowledge his presence Sherlock spun the police issued laptop around to face himself on Dimmock's desk and typed in the URL he wanted, ignoring Dimmock's squawk of protest. It was a clunky, second rate piece of junk but he figured it was better than having to show the man on his phone. He had pictures on that phone that no one was ever allowed to look at except himself and John.

Dimmock subsided quickly and settled for throwing Sherlock a mild glare while crossing his arms over his chest. He looked petulant and childish but Sherlock thought that could be worked around. Dimmock seemed intelligent enough to give in when he was presented with enough evidence.

"Brian Lukis," Sherlock said randomly, or at least it seemed random to Dimmock. "Freelance journalist, murdered in his flat," Sherlock stopped typing and spun the laptop around to face Dimmock. "Door locked from the inside."

Dimmock found himself reluctantly intrigued by the article on the screen and he let his arms fall to his side as he leaned forward a bit. His glare vanished as his eyes widened.

"You've got to admit it's similar," John chimed in, bringing the DI's attention to him for the first time. The shorter man was normally so quiet and unassuming it was easy to forget that Sherlock Holmes came as a package deal. "Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls." Sherlock shot his husband a disgruntled look. John knew very well that the killer couldn't actually walk through walls. That was ludicrous and impossible…well, mostly impossible. It was something that might be accomplished in the future if technology continued to advance as quickly as it currently was. Sherlock vaguely hoped he would be around to see it, if only because it would make the Work that much more interesting.

John pursed his lips back at him and Sherlock brushed off his own objections to bring his attention back to the DI. "Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Dimmock tore his eyes from the taller man's and looked back at the computer in front of him. He did not want to answer that question. Sherlock let out a loud sigh. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Sherlock asked in a louder voice. Really, his patience would only last so long and Dimmock was sorely testing it.

"Mm-hmm," Dimmock hummed with a nod. He still had a bit of a sullen look about his expression but it was being over taken by resigned acceptance. Dimmock was keeping Lestrade's advice from this morning firmly in mind.

_"Let him show off a bit first," _Lestrade had told him over the phone. _"He's much easier to deal with if he thinks he has to explain everything. You're lucky to be meeting him now and not while John was gone. Nothing really helped in dealing with him then. Just be careful not to look like a complete idiot or he'll chew you up and spit you out, Dimmock. He's not the type to suffer fools gladly or quietly. I've seen him drive PCs to tears and Anderson into speechless rage. Still handle him properly and take your cues from John and you'll be fine with him. He'll give you everything he's got and he'll solve the case faster than you could ever hope for."_

"And the shot that killed him—" Sherlock's voice pulled him back to the present and he looked up into the gray eyes grimly. "Was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," Dimmock admitted grudgingly.

"No," Sherlock said at nearly the same time, almost ignoring Dimmock completely. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Lestrade had said the other man's deductions were gold if you could find the evidence to back them up. The tall dark haired man was rarely ever wrong.

Dimmock found that a bit insulting but the small smirk on the face of the shorter man, Dr. Watson he believed was the name, had him keeping his mouth shut on that point. It wasn't a malicious smirk. It was a smirk that said 'he's right, you know it, so let's just move this along so we can all go do better things'.

Sherlock leaned onto Dimmock's desk to meet his eyes head on. "I've just handed you a murder inquiry." He said in a low voice. Dimmock looked away and then back. That stare was a bit unnerving. "Five minutes in his flat."

Dimmock knew that the five minutes Holmes asked for would turn into fifteen at the least and then he'd have to chase the man down when he took evidence home without telling anyone. It was good at least that Sherlock had a flat that was easily accessible now. Dimmock had heard horror stories of the flops the other man had lived in while his husband was overseas. "Only five minutes." Dimmock finally agreed.


	13. Brian Lukis' Flat

**Disclaimer: Right so…I've decided that I'm going to create a parallel dimension where Lestrade is real and I can have him all to myself. On a side note did you know that the easiest way to give my daughter a headache is to ask her how many parallel dimensions her decisions have created today? Yeah, that or ask her how big the universe is. I swear one of these days her brain is going to explode…of course it gives me a headache too. All those choices and separate worlds that are nearly the same as ours because I made a single different choice…oh, owowowowowow! Stopping now. Dammit! Where's my Aleve? So the characters are not mine. This headache is though.**

**A/N: Okay, so we're only about half an hour through the show and this is already the thirteenth chapter. Guess I have a lot to say…or there's just more stuff happening in this episode as opposed to the first one. Whichever it is this is pretty fun, really. Let me know what you think.**

**Brian Lukis' Flat**

Sherlock ducked elegant agile under the crime scene tape and started up the stair with a light step. He knew he'd find the clues he needed here. He knew it. Dimmock was right behind him but Sherlock paid him no mind. John could deal with him while Sherlock thought and deduced.

The journalist's flat reminded him a bit of 221B with its stacks of books and general clutteredness. It was strangely comforting until he spotted the black rose lying on the floor and remembered that they were, in fact, in the flat of a dead man. A murdered man. That was kind of creepy when he thought about it though he didn't let it bother him. It wasn't the first time he'd searched a flat where someone had been murdered and it wouldn't be the last.

Dimmock and John hung back by the doorway, silently watching as he prowled. John was darting his eyes around with an intent look. He was battle ready and alert. It wouldn't be the first time a murderer returned to the scene and tried to kill them. Dimmock wasn't paying attention to anything but Sherlock and Sherlock sighed. It wasn't distrust that filled Dimmock's eyes. More…admiration? Confusion? He watched Sherlock because he wanted to know what Sherlock knew. Sherlock missed Lestrade in that moment. Lestrade watched him but he also scanned their surroundings giving John back up in case he missed a shadow moving or the glint of light off of a weapon. John was going to have to be twice as vigilant with Lestrade not there and it irritated him that Dimmock was so very green and naïve.

He spotted the window and nearly grinned. Perfect. Had to be. He strode over to it and moved the curtains aside. Now he did smile and let out a small huff of triumphant amusement. "Four floors up," he said in a quiet voice. He drew in a breath. "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, think they're impregnable." He turned away from the window and paced around the room again. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in." Now he looked over at Dimmock but didn't really see him. There was another room to check, one with a skylight. Excellent.

"I don't understand," Dimmock whinged as Sherlock whirled past him and down into the other room.

That tone of voice irritated him but he answered anyway. Even though he wasn't looking at John he knew his husband was giving him the look. The one that said he knew that Dimmock was irritating but they needed to put up with him anyway. Besides, having a second DI consulting with him would give him more cases. "We're dealing with a killer that can climb," he explained impatiently.

Dimmock followed him into the room. John stayed in the parlour. The other room was too small for all three of them. He leaned his back against the jamb. He could keep an eye on Sherlock and the window and he subtly relaxed a bit. Sherlock was inside a small room with only one access point other than the door and he was between his husband and the window. Nothing could get to Sherlock without a bit of warning. Good.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock's whine had turned to incredulous dismay.

Sherlock leaned close for a look at the skylight. Point of entrance? "He clings to the walls like an insect." He pushed the skylight open easily. "That's how he got in."

Dimmock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets to prevent himself from strangling the man. Why couldn't he just explain things in a clear fashion? Really! Why hadn't Lestrade warned him that he'd need a translator? "What?"

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look over his shoulder as he clung to the frame of the skylight. "He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight." Sherlock nodded his head to the skylight as though to prove his point.

"You're not serious," Dimmock's voice was heavy with disbelief. "Like Spider-Man?"

"Pop culture reference," John said softly but Sherlock heard him and dismissed Dimmock's inane allusion.

Sherlock gave Dimmock a scowl for good measure. "He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon."

"Hold on!" Dimmock scoffed, the urge to strangle him warring with the urge to have him committed. He clenched his hands into fists in his pockets and tried to focus on Lestrade's assurances that this madman was never wrong or rarely and never about the methods of murder.

Sherlock ignored him his vision filled with the scene from the window of Sir William's office. "And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." He stepped away from the skylight and fidgeted. He wanted to pace. He needed to pace and think but there was no room. "We need to find out what connects these two men." His eyes caught on the books piled haphazardly on the stairs. He hopped down to inspect them.

He scooped on of the books up and stared at the imprint on the front cover. West Kensington Library. Interesting. He slapped the book closed and started down the stairs. "Come, John we've somewhere to be," he called as he ducked under the tape again, book still tucked under his arm.

"Excuse me," John said politely as he squeezed past the befuddled Detective Inspector to follow his husband out of the flat.

"What? Wait! No! Get back here!" Dimmock shouted after them. "Where are you going? Holmes! What are you doing?"

John paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked over his shoulder at him. "Look, I'll text you when he finds something. Until then it's best to just let him do what he needs to. If he has to slow down to explain his process to the rest of us then a killer will go free."

Dimmock sighed and massaged his temples with two fingers. "Do I even want to know how you know my mobile number?"

John sent him a cocky grin. "Probably not." He turned and headed out.

"John!" Sherlock's sharp, plaintive voice called to them from the corridor.

"Not a dog," John called back even as he walked a bit faster.

Dimmock shook his head in confused irritation. He needed to call Lestrade again and have him figure out what the Hell Holmes was doing.


	14. The LIbrary

**Disclaimer: Nope, not doing this again. Do NOT mention parallel dimensions ever again. Ever. Not going there. I only just got rid of the headache. So new plan needed. I'll do it later. Head still feels funny from the headache. So they aren't mine. None of the characters belong to me. **

**A/N: There's a fair bit of deviation in this chapter. I always wondered why Sherlock didn't check to make sure Lukis checked the book out. It could have been planted, a discard, old, any number of things. So I used my version to explain this to my satisfaction.**

**The Library**

The West Kensington Library was housed in a gigantic building, three stories. John had never much liked it. Sure they had an excellent selection of books but it was so structured, austere, imposing. He liked his libraries and book shops cozy and warm. Lit with lamps or sunlight and not bright fluorescent lights that made one's eyes hurt after ten minutes beneath them.

The cab ride over had been quiet. Though their cab rides usually were. Sherlock liked to use the time to catalogue data and puzzle out connections. John liked to stare out the window making note of the changes to their city. But this time there had been a tenseness to the air. John thought he'd seen Sherlock open his mouth to say something a few times and then close it with a regretful look. John kept his own counsel. He knew Sherlock would enlighten him only when he was ready. He could be patient.

John hopped on the escalator behind his husband, not completely sure what they were doing or why exactly they had come to this library when there was a good one quite close to their flat. Sherlock of course did his 'I'm in a hurry and so I'm going to walk up the escalator instead of just riding it' thing forcing John to do the same. John followed him doggedly not at all perturbed by Sherlock's silence.

Sherlock took the book he'd taken from Lukis' flat to the main desk. "May I help you?" The rather severe man behind the desk asked without looking up.

"Ah, hello," Sherlock said in a pleasant voice. "I need a bit of help. My friend, Brian and I were taking a cab together the other day and well, after he got out I found this book. I think it's one he checked out from you library but I'm not positive. I'd really like to give it back to him but it'd be a bit embarrassing if it wasn't his, you see?" The man finally looked up at him with a frown. "I was wondering if there was any way that you could check the name of the borrower."

The man heaved a rather put upon sigh but held out his hand for the book. He scanned it and then looked up at Sherlock again. "What did you say the name was, sir?"

Sherlock affected an engaging grin. "Brian, Brian Lukis, he's a journalist, you see? I'm sure if this book is his then he must be going frantic that he doesn't have it for his research." First rule of convincing someone that you knew someone you didn't was to give more information than was asked for.

The man behind the desk rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Lukis checked this book out just two days ago." He handed the book back to Sherlock.

"Brilliant. Just excellent," Sherlock beamed and spun away. He headed down the stacks and John walked faster to keep up with Sherlock's long legged stride. "Had to be sure it was him that checked it out," Sherlock explained. "The date stamped on the book is the same day that he died."

John watched Sherlock check the call number on the spine of the book and then the aisle. Sherlock pulled a book from the shelf and checked the front, put it back and pulled another. John nodded and started doing the same on the other side. Something on the back of the bookshelf caught his eye. "Sherlock," he said in a grim voice. He pulled a stack of books from the shelf.

Sherlock turned to him, a bit concerned by his tone of voice. John had a look of resigned horror on his face and Sherlock hurriedly grabbed some books off the shelf and peaked in. Yellow painted symbols, same as the ones in Sir William's office, peaked back at him. Hmmm, his suspicions were correct then. And he'd found the connection, sort of.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Back at the flat they stood next to each other and stared at the 'Mirror of Symbols'. John had given it that nickname earlier that day when he'd looked into it to try and straighten his collar and could only see the photographs of Sir William's office and Sherlock's scribbles of the symbols and close approximations that only he could understand.

"So the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon." Sherlock mused aloud. "Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies."

John followed this train of logic easily enough. "The killer finds Lukis at the library. He writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home."

"Later that night he dies, too," Sherlock picked up the thread of conversation. He pulled in a breath and traced a finger along one of the symbols on the mirror.

John heaved out a sigh. "Why did they die, Sherlock?" He asked in a low tone.

Sherlock seemed almost entranced by the movement of his finger on the photograph from Sir William's office. "Only the cipher can tell us."

John nodded slightly. "C'mon," he said suddenly. "We're going for a walk."

Sherlock scowled a bit but swirled into his coat anyway and followed his husband out the door. Those symbols needed to ruminate in his Mind Palace a bit more. He had an idea about who to ask about the paint and the code itself anyway.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock stated to him as they walked along aimlessly. "From the million pound security system at the bank to the pin machine you took exception too," John shot him a disgruntled look that he outwardly ignored. "Cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

A bit worried about being rejected John wound their fingers together. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice the gesture. He wouldn't really notice though, John realized. He'd been holding Sherlock's hand since he could walk. It was as natural to them both as breathing. "Yes, okay, but…" he steered Sherlock's thought processes.

"But it's all computer-generated electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different." Sherlock tugged on his hand and pulled him towards a terrace of stairs leading to a dome topped building. "It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

John looked around at the stairs and the building. Sherlock was striding with a purpose now. "Where are we headed?" John asked him.

"I need to ask some advice," Sherlock said quietly.

John snickered a bit. "What? Sorry?"

Sherlock scowled over his shoulder at him but didn't let go of his hand. "You heard me perfectly; I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice," John stated simply to wind Sherlock up.

Sherlock squeezed his hand and glared. "On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert."

Well, art had never been Sherlock's strong suit. "Ian's place is on the other side of town, Sherlock." John pointed out.

"Wrong kind of painting, John," Sherlock smirked and pulled him around the building towards an alley. "We need something a bit less art gallery and a bit more art mural, I think."


	15. Raz

**Disclaimer: So not mine. Really wish that at least Lestrade was mine but he isn't and it's a tragedy but something that I'll have to learn to live with.**

**A/N: Hehehe, I like Raz. He and Sherlock are so mean to John in this one. But really when it comes to graffiti it's every man for himself, you know?**

**Raz**

The hiss of the aerosol paint was loud in the alley, even with the sound of sirens and traffic in the not too far off distance. John trailed behind Sherlock towards the sound. A young man stood in front of a pair of grey steel doors with a can of paint in each hand. John couldn't see what exactly he was painting on the doors but he was fairly sure it would be something rude.

"Part of my new exhibition," the young man said as they walked up behind him. He hadn't even looked up from his work as they'd approached which meant he'd most likely been expecting them. John had wondered at how Sherlock knew exactly where to find his expert and now he thought he'd figured it out. Sherlock had texted him while they had their walk.

Sherlock eyed the paint on the door with his usual bland expression though John thought he saw a flash of amusement in his grey eyes. "Interesting," Sherlock said and reached into his inside coat pocket for his phone.

The young man let out a delighted chuckle. "I call it 'urbanbloodlustfrenzy'," he informed the tall man with a smug note in his voice.

John sent Sherlock a look that spoke of his disapproval and asked if this was the expert he meant earlier. Sherlock ignored him. Of course he did. So John just rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned his attention to the graffiti artist. "Catchy," he said with that note of disapproval heavy in his tone.

The young man must have understood the tone of disapproval because the smile fell from his face and he became serious. "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes around that corner." He glanced over at Sherlock, stopping his work for the first time since they had arrived. "Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock didn't say anything; he just held out his phone. The young man glanced at it and tossed ones of the cans he was holding to John. John caught it automatically and his eyes widened in surprised horror. "Know the author?" Sherlock asked after the young man took the phone from his hand.

The graffiti artist flipped through the photos on the phone. "Recognize the paint," he admitted. "Looks like Michigan hardcore propellant." His gaze met Sherlock's. "I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols, do you recognize them?" Sherlock asked somewhat impatiently.

The young man studied the pictures closely. "Not even sure it's a proper language," he said slowly.

Sherlock scowled and leaned closer to the younger man. "Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this," he nodded his head to the phone and the photos it contained. "Is the key to finding out who killed them."

The newly identified Raz rolled his eyes. It was always murder with Mr. Holmes. "What and this is all you've got to go on?" He gave the phone in his hand a bit of a wave. "It's hardly much now, is it?"

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Are you going to help us or not?" He bit out harshly and his grey eyes bored into Raz's.

Raz looked a bit ashamed and he swallowed. "I'll ask around," he promised quietly.

Sherlock sighed. "Somebody must know something about it," he voice had risen to a near shout. Movement at the end of the alley caught his attention.

"Oy!" The yell from one of the city's Community Support Officers caught the attention of all three of the men standing in the alley. Raz and John quickly glanced towards the shout to see two of the officers heading towards them at a run.

Sherlock swept his phone from Raz's hand and took off in the other direction. Raz, eyes wide with adrenaline, kicked the bag, full of paint cans, at his feet in John's direction and followed Sherlock out of the alley. John, who had needed to turn around to see who was shouting didn't have a chance to move farther before the officers were on him.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?" One of the officers asked him belligerently as they came to a stop in front of John. "This gallery is a listed public building."

John shook his head. "No, no, wait, wait," John tried to smooth his voice out. He hated it when Sherlock got him in these types of situations. "It's not me who painted that," he explained. "I was just holding this for…" he turned to motion to Raz and realized both Raz and his husband had disappeared. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in dismay and irritation. Sherlock had left him behind to take the heat alone. Sometimes he really did wonder if prison was all that bad. He was fairly sure some days that he'd get first-hand experience when he bashed his husband's head in.

John sighed and turned back to the officers as they gave him knowing looks. One of them stepped up next to him and nudged the bag with his foot. The paint cans clinked together. "Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" He asked dryly.

John opened him mouth, glanced at the wall, closed his mouth, looked back at the officer, back to the picture and groaned. There was no way he was getting out of this one without help from Mycroft at the least. Why in God's name did that graffiti artist, Raz, have to paint a pig in a cop's uniform?

Oh, yes, John thought. He and Sherlock would both soon be residents small dark rooms. Sherlock in a coffin and John would shortly join him as he knew that Mycroft's brotherly affection for him would last past Sherlock's last breath when John strangled his husband. Mycroft would have him shot faster than he could blink but that was all right. Better than the ASBO he was about to get anyway.

God he wished Greg wasn't on vacation. His only choice left was to call Mycroft in and that was going to be highly embarrassing. Maybe he'd yell at Sherlock though. That would be good. Not that Sherlock would listen or even really care but still…He fished his phone out with a grimace at the officers. He really was going to kill Sherlock for making him have to resort to this. "Hey, Audrey, let me talk to him, yeah?"


	16. Andy and ASBOs

**Disclaimer: Learning to live with a broken heart (cuz they're not mine) can be done, it's not easy but it's doable. Just have to be determined. And I am. Determined to find a way to get Lestrade and tie him to my bed. I'll succeed eventually. I know I will. **

**A/N: I want to thank the guest for their reviews. I really appreciate them and I wish I could send you replies but well that's how this goes. Anyway, thanks.**

**Andy and ASBOs**

He followed her, frustrated, irritated but most of all worried. A nameless dread had hold of his heart and a vice of anxiousness had his stomach in knots. "She was in the middle of an important piece of restoration," Andy insisted. "Why would she suddenly resign?" Andy knew his voice was whining. He knew he was probably stepping over the line with his boss. He couldn't help himself though. Soo Lin would never have left her precious pots and cups broken while she ran off.

But his boss only gave him a sympathetic look. "Family problems—she said so in her letter."

"But she doesn't have a family," Andy interrupted. "She came to this country on her own."

Now there was irritation and pity mixed in with the sympathetic look she slanted him. "Andy," she began with just a tinge of impatience.

"Look," Andy said hurriedly. He had to convince her there was something wrong. He just had to. "Those teapots, those ceramics—they've become her obsession. She's been working on restoring them for weeks." Brown eyes flicked up to his and held with a mild glare. "I-I can't believe that she would just abandon them."

She frowned at him and sighed. "Perhaps she was getting a bit of unwanted attention," she suggested with a knowing look and the first bit of true irritation in her eyes.

Andy nearly groaned but let his boss walk away this time. He just knew that something was wrong with Soo Lin and he knew that simply because she couldn't accept his attention didn't mean she didn't want it. She had nearly said so herself.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock stared down at the book in his hands with his back to the rest of the room. There had to be…The door slamming shut made his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. The rather furious footsteps on the stairs confirmed that his door slammer was also his husband and he wasn't happy. Well, Sherlock sniffed mentally, really, John should know better and he should run faster. "You've been awhile," Sherlock told him when the footsteps entered the room.

John stopped, glared at the window instead of his husband and took a deep breath. "Yeah," he turned sharply on the first word and glared at the back of Sherlock's head. "Well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" And neither did Mycroft, especially when he had Molly's first sonogram picture in his wallet. He paced back and forth for a moment. "Just formalities—fingerprints, charge sheet and I've got to be in magistrates court on Tuesday," this part was true but Mycroft had told him not to worry, the CCTV camera would show that he hadn't painted anything on that door even if they couldn't (read wouldn't) be able to identify the true artist.

Sherlock looked up from the book in his hand and back to the nearly covered over 'Mirror of Symbols'. "What?" He asked in his most distracted tone. He really hoped John didn't notice that he was faking his immersion in The Work. He'd already had an earful from Mycroft he didn't need another from John.

"Me, Sherlock," John snarled loudly. "In court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO." Sherlock could feel the heat of John's glare on his back and kept his cringe mental. Really, he should have just grabbed John's hand and forced him to run as well, then all of this would have been avoided.

Sherlock looked back down at the book. If John's growls and snarls hadn't been directed at him they would have been amusing really and an ASBO was only a possible scenario. Mycroft would stop it. "Good, fine." He muttered. John would think he was too far into his own head to even hear him; at least that was the plan. It usually only worked about sixty percent of the time but maybe this would be one of them.

John scowled. Surely Sherlock wasn't that far gone on this stupid case? "You want to tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up at any time." John hissed at his back he turned back to the window. Sherlock was ignoring him again. Sometimes…just sometimes.

Sherlock slammed the book into his palm. "This symbol, I still can't place it." He turned around and saw John shucking his coat. Sherlock hurried over and grabbed the collar, keeping it up. "No, I need you to go to the police station and ask about the journalist." He grabbed John's bicep and towed him towards the door over John's protests. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get a hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements." He could still hear John's mutterings of death and destruction to his person even as he shrugged into his coat and sped down the stairs. The threats didn't bother him since John was still following him down the stairs and onto the street. "I'll go and see Van Coon's PA." He pulled his gloves from his pocket and turned to look at John. "If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide." He set off down Baker Street leaving John, fuming, at the kerb in front of their flat.

John glared after his tall, lanky, bloody gorgeous, nuisance of a husband for a moment but didn't yell anything after his retreating back. It would have been futile anyway. He raised a hand and flagged down a cab. "Good afternoon, Neal," he said as pleasantly as he could. "The Yard, please."

John caught a glint of sunlight off something reflective and turned his attention to it. A man in black clothing was holding a camera pointed at their building. John frowned for a moment in confusion and then shook it off. Sherlock's nutter fans could take all the pictures of their building if they wanted so long as that was all they did.

"Sure thing, Dr. Watson," Neal nodded with a grin.

John crawled into the back and took one last look down the block trying to catch sight of his disappearing husband.


	17. Personal Assistants and Detective Inspec

**Disclaimer: Right. Still not mine. I'm tired so that's all you're getting today. Hope you don't mind; don't care if you don't.**

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews and your support. I'm so glad you like my stories and that you can say so. I love reviews. Most writers do. So enough gushing at you. On with the story.**

**Personal Assistants and Detective Inspectors**

"He flew back from Dalian on Friday," the blond told him and pointed to the computer screen automatically to show him. "It looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team." She straightened up and turned to face him wondering why this information would be important.

"Can you print me off a copy?" He asked her in that deep baritone that made her bones rattle.

She turned back to the computer to hide the blush that voice evoked, it was rather embarrassing to flush every time he talked but he didn't seem to notice so it was all right. "Sure." She moved the mouse and clicked on the print button.

"What about the day he died?" The man asked her while the schedule was printing for him. He pointed at the computer screen to indicate the day he wanted. "Can you tell me where he was?"

She pulled up the day in question. _Pull it together, Amanda!_ She ordered her shaking fingers. "Sorry, there's a bit of a gap." The man frowned in irritation. "I have all his receipts," she offered as a possible solution.

He gave her an incredibly engaging grin and she passed the receipts and his print out of Eddie's schedule with a dazed look. It was only after he left that she wondered why a New Scotland Yard detective was spending so much time investigating poor Eddie's suicide. Sherlock Holmes didn't look like any detective she'd ever seen.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Your friend," Dimmock was studiously digging through a box and not looking at John so he missed the shorter man's frown of annoyance.

"Husband," John bit out. "And whatever you're about to say I'm probably behind you one hundred percent."

"Husband then," Dimmock slanted him a sly glance and a smirk before returning to his search. "He's an arrogant sod."

John couldn't stop the grin stretching his lips. "Yes, he is," by the time the DI looked up in a bit of shock he'd tamed the grin to a faint smile. "That is a rather mild term. People have said a lot worse about him."

"And you haven't stopped them because…?" Dimmock inquired as he pulled a book from the box on the desk and held it out to him.

"Sherlock has never much cared about what other people think of him," John raised an inquiring brow at the book in Dimmock's hand. "Except for a select few he couldn't care less what people say."

"Everyone says they don't care," Dimmock challenged. "They're always lying."

John chuckled. "Sherlock isn't everyone," John reminded him. "He truly doesn't care." He held up a hand when Dimmock went to protest again. "I've known him his whole life. He doesn't care what anyone thinks of him except for a few people. And they're all related to him in some way. Let it go, DI Dimmock. Seriously. Sherlock's different from anyone you've ever met or ever will meet and he doesn't care about the things people say about him. That's up to those of us close to him." He dismissed the subject and looked back down at the book. "Diary?"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?" Dimmock asked him in a cold tone. "The journalist's diary?"

"Yep," John took the small book and flipped it open. He found a plane ticket in the journalist's name to Dalian and scribbles of names and times across the dates in the schedule. "Thanks." He looked up then. "Look, Inspector Dimmock, don't worry about Sherlock. He'll be fine. He's pretty much immune to anything you want to call him and it's all something I'm sure I've heard before. He'll not thank you if you step in for him. He likes being seen as cold and remote. Keeps people away from him, you see?" John put the book in the pocket of his coat and walked away.

Dimmock watched him go with a scowl. If Watson wouldn't protect his husband from the slurs of the officers at the Yard then he would. It wasn't right, what they kept saying about the man. He was only trying to help, after all. Who cared if he was annoying as Hell when he did so? As long as he got the job done.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"What kind of boss was he, Amanda?" Sherlock asked her as they stood together by her desk. "Appreciative?"

"Uh, no," she admitted twisting her fingers together in distress. This felt exceedingly disloyal but he had said he needed to know. She laughed a bit as memories assaulted her. "That's not a word I'd use." She looked down at her twisting fingers as he sat in the desk chair. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

A bottle of hand lotion on the top of the desk caught his eye. "Like that hand cream?" He asked her with a nod towards the bottle. "He bought that for you, didn't he?" Amanda reached up and uncomfortably adjusted the pin in her hair.

She looked at him in a bit of dismay but he wasn't paying attention to her any longer. He was rifling through the receipts intent on his work. "Look at this one," his hand shot a receipt out towards her and she took it gingerly. It was dated the day he died. She bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. "Got a taxi from home on the day he died, eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office," Amanda informed him more than a little confused at this line of thought.

"Not rush-hour," he told her without taking his eyes from the other receipts on the desk. "Check the time—mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as…" He pulled up his mental map of London trying to deduce where Van Coon would have gone that day.

"The West End," Amanda interrupted him excitedly. "I remember him saying."

Another receipt flashed towards her in his hand. "Underground, printed at one in Piccadilly."

Amanda gave him another confused look. "So he got a tube back to the office. Why would he get a taxi into town and then the tube back?"

He shot her an exasperated look. It was as though he thought she should already know this. "Because he was delivering something heavy." He turned back to her desktop and rifled through a few more receipts. "You don't want to lug a package up the escalator."

Amanda's head was spinning in her confusion. "Delivering?"

Sherlock ignored her. "To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it, and then..." He picked up another receipt and studied it. "He stopped on his way," he nearly whispered. He looked up, eyes bright with some hidden realization. "He got peckish."

He handed her the receipt and without another word left her alone with only her reeling confusion for company.


	18. Desperation

**Disclaimer: I'm still tired today…well, of course I am it's not even five in the morning yet. Getting up so early is playing havoc with my mental facilities. Who am I kidding? I always get up this early…well, usually. So anyway the characters are not mine.**

**A/N: This chapter is a bit off of the canon episode. Not a lot, mind you, just a bit. And I've given you a bit of a peak into Sherlock's thought process in regards to John. He's pretty much wrong but hey, it makes sense that he would think what he is. Don't worry, John sets him straight in the end. Warning for a bit of kissage between John and Sherlock. Couldn't help myself.**

**Desperation**

The pizzeria was crowded even at this time of day. Sherlock ignored them all. "So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?" Sherlock ignored the creeped out looks he got from the people around him. He always did his best thinking out loud and he didn't care what these idiots thought of him. He spun in a circle and then kept walking past the pizzeria. "Where did the taxi drop you…?"

He whirled again and took a few steps backwards, looking for any clue at all as to where Van Coon could have been dropping off the package. His back hit something that wasn't as hard as stone and not as soft as a pillow and his breath left him in a grunt. He hated when people didn't watch where they were going. Couldn't they see he was thinking?

He spun around to berate the person that had the audacity to nearly knock him over and discovered his husband. Excellent! He grabbed John's shoulders and stared into his eyes. Now he wouldn't get any more of those creeped out looks, he could talk to John instead of thin air. "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died," he explained quickly, "whatever was hidden inside that case." John opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock talked over top of him. He needed to get this information out, convince John that they were on the right track. "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information—credit card bills, receipts." John's head was nodding but his hazel eyes were starting to become irritated. Why wasn't John believing him? John always believed in him.

"Sherlock," John tried quietly. He knew it was futile to try and get a word in edgewise when Sherlock was this worked up but he had to try. He didn't need to know all this. He'd already figured it out.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and he looked away from John's increasingly exasperated face. Why was John being so different? "He flew back from China then he came here," Sherlock insisted. John had to see! He had to know that Sherlock was right.

"Sherlock," John tried again with a bit more force. Saying Sherlock's name in that tone used to make the man stop for a second so John could tell him something but John had noticed that it hadn't been working quite as well since he'd come home. He calmed himself mentally. It was to be expected that there would be changes between them. There was no help for it after so long apart. They only needed to become comfortable with each other again.

Sherlock was becoming desperate. John wasn't listening. John always listened. John was…John. Just John. Always there and always willing and eager to follow his lead and…what was happening with his husband? Sherlock's mouth continued to speak words but most of his brain was involved in the puzzle of John. "Somewhere in this street, somewhere near."

John heaved a sigh as Sherlock spun in front of him, eyes scanning up and down the street but not really seeing it. It hurt to see Sherlock so manic. He knew it had very little to do with the case and everything to do with him and why Sherlock had become so closed to him. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and spun him back to face him. Once he had Sherlock facing him he placed his hands on Sherlock's cheek and stared into his gun-metal gray eyes. "Sherlock," he said slowly and clearly. "Breathe." Sherlock blinked at him in confusion. "Just breathe for a moment, yeah? In…out…in…out. Good. Better?" Sherlock gave a reluctant nod. "Now listen," John instructed.

"John," Sherlock said his heart rate picking up again because John was going to say something Sherlock wasn't going to like. He was going to say he was stupid and they had the wrong place or that John had better things to do than to hang around watching Sherlock try to deduce the correct shop. "We have—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John hissed. "Let me talk for a minute. Are you listening now?" John put his thumbs over Sherlock's lips so that he could try to stop Sherlock from speaking. "We're going to that shop, right over there." He let go of Sherlock's face with one hand and pointed at a garish red sign across the street.

Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment. "How could you tell?" He blurted out. He knew John was brilliant but that was incredible. Rather hot too. Made Sherlock wish all these people would disappear. It always got to him when John did something brilliant and on the rare occasions he proved Sherlock wrong about something.

The tips of John's ears turned a bit red, as though he knew what Sherlock was thinking. He probably did. But he only pulled out a book and opened it to show Sherlock. "Lukis' diary," he admitted. "He was here too. What did you think I just popped up on this street magically?"

Sherlock gave his husband a sheepish smile. "I hadn't thought about it, actually. I was just glad you were here."

John smoothed a thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone. "Me too." His lips moved up and he lightly kissed that mouth. "Me too, love. Now," he took Sherlock's hand in his own. "He wrote down the address. So let's go."

Sherlock let John tug him across the street. "I'm still smarter than you. I didn't have an address and I still got here before you did."

John looked over his shoulder at his smiling husband. "You might be smarter than me but you're still an idiot." John grinned at Sherlock's affronted look. "You are. I still love you though and you're my idiot so it's all fine."

Sherlock pulled John to a stop in front of the shop and leaned over to place his lips across John's. He lapped at the seam of John's lips with his tongue and swept inside when John parted them. Sherlock lost track of time, of the case, of the people around them, of everything and focused his entire being on this one kiss. John was a distraction yes, but John was the distraction that defined his focus. "I love you too, John," Sherlock whispered when he finally allowed them up for air.

John gave him a bright smile and twisted their fingers together again before towing him into the shop.


	19. The Lucky Cat

**Disclaimer: No matter how many times you ask the answer will be the same. Sherlock and co. are not mine. I have a super-secret plan to change that but for now they aren't mine and they'll stay that way. No I won't tell you my super-secret plan either. Do I look stupid? You'll steal it!**

**A/N: I think I'm loving this story. I missed it the past few days when I was caught up in other things. But now I'm back and I can work on it again. It'll be fun. So enjoy the chapter.**

**The Lucky Cat**

Sherlock sniffed a bit as he and John entered the shop, 'The Lucky Cat'. The scents were strange and different. Not that he didn't like them but he needed to clear his nose of them for a moment. John smirked at him. "That's what you get," he whispered. "For having a good olfactory sense."

Sherlock's lips quirked back at him. "It's hardly my fault you have no sense of smell at all."

John rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock? Do you really want to have this conversation now?" He glanced around the small shop and gave the elderly Chinese woman behind the counter a friendly smile. "Hello," he nodded to her.

"Perhaps not," Sherlock murmured back with a glance of his own around the room full of trinkets from China. The waving cats on one display gave him the shivers. They were a bit creepy.

"You want lucky cat?" The woman behind the counter must have noticed his interest in them. She held up one of the golden waving cats that had been sitting on the counter beside her.

John glanced over for a moment and gave his own shuddered at the creepy looking things. "No, thanks but no." Sherlock's lips quirked in a quick smile. John had probably noticed his aversion to the golden, wide-eyed cat statue as well.

The woman pushed the cat out towards them, making the arm wave a bit more. It was rather nauseating watching the arm wave at them. "Ten pound, ten pound," she offered.

Sherlock turned away from the woman and her cat to swallow the sick feeling it was causing. He didn't know why that stupid cat was making him sick to his stomach and he didn't really care. Stupid transport. "No," John breathed out at the woman with a wide smile to hide his own feelings of revulsion.

"I think your wife, she will like," the woman said persistently. Sherlock's shoulders tensed and John's smile fell from his face. They both took in deep breaths to calm themselves. They were almost too used to everyone they met knowing they were married to each other.

Sherlock scowled at a shelf of warrior statues while John murmured more 'no, thank yous'. Was the woman truly that unobservant? Did she really not see them trying to suck each other's faces off only moments ago in front of her store? People really were idiots.

John ignored the woman after he told her no again and studied a display of tea cups in front of him. He really didn't like this store for some unknown reason. The cats were creepy and the woman behind the counter was pushy and overbearing. Even if Sherlock had been a woman he still wouldn't have liked to have one of those cats. He just wanted to get this finished and get out of this shop. He didn't even know what they were looking for.

He studied the designs on the cup without really seeing them for a moment longer and then the swirls and angles penetrated his brain. His hand shot out and he picked one up. He turned it upside down and tried very hard not to gasp at the tag on the bottom. This was rather unexpected.

"Sherlock?" He called out in a quiet voice.

Sherlock turned at his call and put the warrior statue he was holding back on the shelf. He knew that tone. That was John's 'I've found something' voice. He took the few steps needed across the small shop and stood shoulder to shoulder with his husband.

John used his index finger to point at the red markings on the tag. "That label there," he said quietly.

Sherlock quelled the urge to beam at his John. "Yes," he said instead his voice as quiet as John's. "I see it."

John's eyes cut away from the tag and settled on Sherlock's profile. "Exactly the same as the cipher," he hissed. He watched Sherlock's eyes glaze over in thought and he cleared his throat.

Sherlock's chin tilted up suddenly and his gray eyes lightened to nearly blue. He took the cup from John's hand and set it back in its place with the others. "Come John, we must go." He turned to the woman behind the counter and gave her a bright fake smile. "Thank you. We'll come back later." He grasped John's elbow and tugged him from the shop.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"It's an ancient number system," Sherlock explained excitedly as they hurried along the sidewalk, fingers again linked together. "Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it." Sherlock turned his head to look at John and make sure he was following his train of thought. John had a considering look on his face with only a slight trace of confusion so Sherlock elaborated. "Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library…" He stopped next to a produce stand and rifled through the bags of grain, comparing the picture of the symbols on his phone to the ones on the bags. "Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"It's a fifteen," John's voice said slowly from behind him. "What we thought was the artist's tag, it's a number fifteen."

Sherlock whirled around and faced him, eyes intent on his face. "And the blindfold, the horizontal line, that was a number as well," he grinned and held up a tag to show John the symbol with the symbol for pound and the number one. "Chinese number one, John."

John answered his grin with one of his own. "We've found it," he chuckled in excitement.

Sherlock nodded, blue eyes blazing with delight and whirled off. John followed him for a few steps before his attention was grabbed by something else. Not too far away an Asian woman had her mobile up and pointed in their direction as though taking a picture of them. She didn't quite look like a tourist. Most tourists didn't dress in all black. John frowned and shrugged off his unease. If Sherlock wasn't making an issue of the woman then neither would he. Surely Sherlock had noticed her, hadn't he?

Still he hurried after his husband anxious to make sure he was all right and stayed that way.


	20. Soo Lin's Flat

**Disclaimer: So, the super-secret plan to get Lestrade in my bed? You really want to know? I mean really, really, ****_really_**** want to know? Okay, I guess I can tell you…I'm going to sleep with a Sherlock Holmes book under my pillow. Boring but really the only way to get Lestrade in my bed, isn't it?**

**A/N: Sorry I didn't post yesterday. Had to work. RL can be a real pain at times. But hey, you get a longer chapter this time too so it all works out, doesn't it? Thanks for sticking with me.**

**Soo Lin's Flat**

John sipped at his steaming tea and stared out the window of the shop he and Sherlock had sought refuge in to discuss their findings. He really did adore these moments with his husband. A small break from the whirlwind of the cases they took. "Two men travel back from China." He said quietly. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke actually. "Both head straight for the Lucky Cat Emporioum." Sherlock was scribbling down the symbols and the meanings they'd found for them. John turned his head to stare at the garish red store front across the street. "What did they see?" He asked rhetorically.

"It's not what they saw," Sherlock refuted in a low voice. "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases." He folded up the napkin he'd been writing on and placed in the inside pocket of his coat.

"You don't think duty free?" John did his best to keep his voice sounding as innocent as possible and stared at Sherlock's scarf to avoid his eyes. If he looked into those grey eyes he knew he'd lose his composure and cackle like a fiend.

Sherlock sent him a look of incredulous confusion. Sometimes John was utterly brilliant and others Sherlock feared for his sanity. He opened his mouth to give his husband a scathing retort but the waitress appeared at the side of their table before he could say anything and set down the plates John had ordered for them.

"Thank you," John told the girl with a pleasant smile. Sherlock caught the glint of humor in his hazel eyes and knew John had been teasing him again. He decided to ignore the teasing and concentrate on the case. John would quit teasing him if he knew Sherlock knew about it and Sherlock actually enjoyed John's gentle teases.

Sherlock leaned his forearms on the table and tilted forward as John picked up his silverware. "Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon," Sherlock said very quietly. "About how he stayed afloat in the market."

Hazel eyes met grey. John considered for a moment and then a faint smirk crossed his lips. "He lost five million." John reminded his husband.

Sherlock returned his smirk. "Made it back in a week," he finished the story. John scooped up a bite of his food. "That's how he made such easy money."

John grinned and shoved the spoonful of food in Sherlock's mouth. "He was a smuggler," he said and laughed at Sherlock's scowl.

Sherlock chewed and swallowed the spicy chicken while he glared at his husband and then turned his head to watch the shop across the way in a vain attempt to stop anymore efforts at feeding him. "A guy like him, it would have been perfect. A business man making frequent trips to Asia." He pulled his head away from the fork that had suddenly appeared in his vision and slanted John a disgusted glance. John just frowned at him.

"Eat," John said in that commanding voice. That voice that had Sherlock obeying without thought.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied with the order. "Lukis was the same," he informed his husband after he'd swallowed. "A journalist writing about China." John nodded and waved him on. "Both of them smuggled stuff out. The Lucky Cat was their dropoff."

Sherlock plucked a spring roll from John's plate and took a bite while he waited for John to assimilate the information. The spring roll was a bit tasteless actually. He'd told John this restaurant wasn't the best.

John stared out the window, contemplating, for a few seconds and then his hazel gaze turned back to Sherlock. "Why did they die?" He asked in a musing tone. Sherlock lifted a brow in question. "It doesn't make sense," John insisted. "If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they finished the job?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a frown. John did have a very good point. He took another bite of the spring roll, now doused in teriyaki sauce to make it more palatable, and thought. A sudden theory had a small smile creasing his lips. He leaned forward again. "What if one of them was light-fingered?"

John cocked his head to the side and stared at his husband in confusion. "How do you mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. How did John not see it? "Stole something, something from the hoard."

John's eyes brightened in realization. "And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both, right." John nodded with a smile for solving the puzzle.

Sherlock stared out the window again, a pensive look on his face. "Remind me," he said in a distracted tone. "When was the last time that it rained?"

John shot him a startled look and quickly shoved a bite of food into his mouth as Sherlock leapt from his seat and hurried out the door of the restaurant. "Why can't he ever give me warning?" John grumbled and threw some money on the table before racing after the taller man.

John caught up with him at a door to the side of the Lucky Cat Emporium. Sherlock was squatting down on the stoop running a thumb across the top of a phonebook with his ungloved hand. Sherlock looked up as he approached.

"That's been here since Monday," he said. He suddenly stood and pressed the doorbell insistently.

Sherlock made note of the name on the call button, Soo Lin Yao, and then gazed around the building for a moment before rushing off again. John sighed to himself as Sherlock disappeared down an alleyway. He'd just have to follow his husband and hope Sherlock told him what was going on.

"No one's been in that flat for at least three days," Sherlock informed him once they were both in the alley beside the building that housed both the flat and The Lucky Cat.

"They went on holiday," John stated with misplaced certainty.

Sherlock strolled to a fire escape and looked at his husband with cutting intensity. "Do we leave our windows open when we go on holiday?" He sneered.

John swallowed at Sherlock's tone and looked back down the alley to hide the hurt. Swift footsteps had him swinging back around in time to see Sherlock leaping for the end of the fire escape. Sherlock pulled it to the ground and immediately started up it. John started towards the bottom to follow him up but the instant Sherlock was off the ladder it swung back upwards and John couldn't reach it. He really hated being short.

"Sherlock!" John yelled up to him as quietly as he could. He wasn't sure if Sherlock heard him and just ignored him or not as he climbed through the open window. John muttered a curse under his breath and raced back towards the front door.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock had excellent hearing. He had, in fact, heard John calling for him but he had no idea what dangers were awaiting in Soo Lin Yao's flat and he had no intention of exposing John to them. He needed John safe and whole. He would not risk his husband ever again.

He knew now, with utter certainty, that he would never be able to survive the loss of his John. He would not take the chance of losing him if he could help it.

So he ignored his husband's call and clambered through the flat's open window.

He was so intent on pretending not to hear John that he failed to note the potted plant on the table beside the window until it began to teeter alarmingly. Thanking John for his quick reflexes he caught it before it could crash to the floor with a slight 'oof'. The incident did bring a stain on the carpet to his attention though and he was again overjoyed that he'd left John outside.

Sherlock straightened, slowly, carefully. Every sense was on alert for anything out of place. Seeing nothing, sensing nothing, he turned to the window. He knew John had already headed for the front of the building but whoever might be in the flat didn't know that. "Someone else has been here," he called out to a John that was probably already closing in on the front door.

He set the vase and its plant back on the small table and looked around again. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase," he said in a more normal tone of voice. He knew John couldn't hear him but that didn't bother him. He just needed to say it aloud. "Just like I did."

He looked around the room he was in once more but couldn't spot anything out of place. He opened the clothes dryer against one wall and sniffed the laundry inside. Inside for a bit more than three days at least. The ringing of the doorbell startled him and he threw the shirt to the side before slamming the door to the dryer shut.

"Think maybe you could let me in this time?" Sherlock readily recognized John's sarcastic tone. John was more than a bit irritated at him. He studied a piece of fabric hanging from the ceiling as he considered the clues in one part of his brain and the other debated the options. He hadn't seen any movement to indicate that someone else was in the flat but that didn't mean that he would just carelessly throw John's life on the line. No, he decided as another object caught his interest. He'd much rather John be angry at him than John be dead.

"Could you not keep doing this, please?" John's angry voice rang out around the still air of the flat. He'd obviously given up on the call button and was shouting through the mail slot.

Sherlock continued to ignore his husband and pulled a bottle of milk from the fridge. He opened it and gave a cautious sniff before quickly turning his head away and screwing the cap back on quickly. Way past the expiration date. He put it back in the refrigerator and decided to let John know that he was all right. He wouldn't let him in yet but he could at least allay some of John's anxiety.

"I'm not the first," he shouted in the direction of the door.

John glared at the door and heard Sherlock's muffled call but couldn't quite make out the actual words. He leaned down and opened the mail flap again. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was forcing him to repeat himself on purpose, he just knew it. "Somebody's been in here before me," he shouted out again anyway.

"What are you saying?" John's voice was both curious and amused. He really was pretending deafness on purpose. Sherlock's lips quirked in a smile despite his irritation. John was amusing when he got angry and tried for a petty revenge.

A footprint in the deep pile carpet made him forget about John's little game. "Size eight feet," he called out, knowing John would remember. He pushed the bead curtain out of the way and followed the direction of the print. "Small but athletic." He stood up in sudden realization.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John let the flap close and straightened. "I'm wasting my breath," he grumbled to himself. As soon as they finished this case he was going to sit Sherlock down and they were going to have a long talk about partnership and being equal.

Irritated with his idiotic husband and knowing it wouldn't do any good but unable to stop himself he smashed a finger on the door buzzer again.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock held the framed photo he'd found to the light from the window and ran his magnifying glass over it. "Small, strong hands," he murmured. "Our acrobat," he concluded aloud. He set the photo back in its place and frowned. "Why didn't he close the window when he left?" Only an instant later he rolled his eyes again, this time at himself. He should have known, really. "Oh, stupid, stupid," he muttered. "Obvious." His body tensed almost without his consent as he stared around in alarm. "He's still here." Of course he was. Why had he disregarded the alertness of his own body earlier? Simply because he couldn't see something didn't mean it wasn't there.

Where was he though? Why hadn't he attacked yet? Sherlock's eyes caught on a screen across the room. Was the acrobat really going to be that obvious? It was entirely possible. Sherlock crept slowly across the room in the direction of the screen. He finally reached it and pulled back the side quickly.

His brain had no time to process the emptiness behind the screen before something, someone, wrapped around his neck from behind. He tried to call out for John but couldn't fight past the constriction around his neck to get enough air to do so.

"Anytime you want to include me," he could barely hear John past the roaring in his ears. Sherlock clawed at the cloth cutting off his breathing. Yes, he though breathing was boring but it was still necessary. Stupid transport.

"John!" Sherlock finally managed a mangled form of his husband's name. He suddenly wasn't altogether sure if he was warning him away or calling for a rescue. "John!" He called out again though he knew it was futile. John wouldn't be able to hear him. His voice was too muffled by the lack of air and the man strangling him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my massive intellect," even as he fought for his life Sherlock couldn't help being amused by John's sarcasm. It would be much better if his husband would just shut up and come save him though.

He struggled against the gray beginning to cloud his vision. If he passed out he was dead. But his muscles were starting to loosen. Well damn. John was going to kill him.

Somewhere something was buzzing. There was movement by his side. Sherlock fought through the cotton clouding his brain. Trying to make some sense of the sensations around him. Painfully he pulled in a lungful of air. What was going on? A shadow. Someone running away.

The buzzing. What was it? His precious lungful of air came back as a coughing fit. Ouch. Not fun. He curled up in an attempt to conserve air and protect his ribs. Right, his brain commented. Strangulation. Not good. Don't ever try that one again.

Sherlock ripped the cloth away from his throat and rolled to his knees. He gasped in as much air as he could. Slowly his brain began to function properly again. John must never know about this.

He reached a hand into his coat pocket, remembering vaguely the movement of his attacker at his side. He came back out with a small black flower. Exactly as they'd found on the bodies of Van Coon and Lukis. Strange he wasn't dead then.

Sherlock laboriously pulled himself to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. At least he wasn't coughing anymore. Maybe he really could fool John. He made his way carefully to the door and pulled it open.

"The milk's gone off," he croaked out huskily before John could say anything. "And the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

John's irritated expression faded to one of concern. "Somebody?" He asked softly and took a step closer to Sherlock, his eyes calculating.

Sherlock nodded and eyed his husband warily. "Soo Lin Yao," he said in what he hoped was more along the lines of his normal voice. "We have to find her," he tried to suppress another round of coughs and succeeded…mostly.

"How, exactly?" John asked in a bland tone while his eyes continued to study Sherlock. Sherlock escaped that intense scrutiny by bending to pick up a slip of paper from the floor right inside the door.

_Soo Lin,_

_Please ring me._

_Tell me you're OK._

_Andy_

Sherlock studied the note and ignored John for the moment. It had been written on the back of an envelope and folded in half. He unfolded it and nearly grinned. That was easy. He held it up and looked at John again. "Well, you could start with this." He swiftly strode out of the building, letting the door bang shut behind him and started walking away.

"You've gone all croaky," John observed. "Are you getting a cold?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted and then ruined the declaration with a cough he couldn't suppress.

"Right," John didn't sound convinced.


	21. At the Museum

**Disclaimer: Do I really need to say it again? You just love to hurt me, don't you? Do my tears give you that much pleasure? I don't own them. There. Happy now?**

**A/N: So far this is looking to be my longest story to date. Ha. Cool. Sherlock and the CHS will eventually be longer I'm sure but for now…yay me! And yay you for hanging in and reading this far. Congrats.**

**For those of you who are about to object I adore museums. Strolling around one is one of my favorite ways to spend an afternoon with my son and daughter (who also enjoy museum trips…and art galleries). I just don't think Sherlock or John would appreciate them all that much. They're far more in the present than the past and if it doesn't affect their lives then they have little use for the past. See? So…objections cleared up? Good. On with the story.**

**At the Museum**

Sherlock prowled around the pillar holding some useless replica of an equally useless ancient artifact. He wasn't all that enthused with museums in the first place. Unless they were murder museums anyway. The old crimes were just as intriguing as the new ones. "When was the last time that you saw her?" He asked the nervous young man standing next to John.

Andy shifted a bit on his feet and glanced towards John. John gave him a reassuring nod. "Three days ago," Andy admitted quietly. "Here at the museum." He knew three days wasn't all that long and she could have just taken a long weekend but it didn't add up to him. He really hoped these two gentlemen could give a clue on Soo Lin's whereabouts and how she was.

Sherlock gave no indication that he was paying Andy's words any heed but John nodded to the younger man encouragingly. Sherlock strode to a glass case filled with ancient Chinese tea pots and examined them closely.

Behind him Andy followed him with his eyes. Andy stuffed his hands in his pockets and pulled his gaze from the taller man to look at the shorter one. He was more comforting somehow, easier to talk to. "This morning they told me she had resigned," he confessed with an uncomfortable shrug. "Just like that. Just left her work unfinished." His tone conveyed his utter disbelief at this possibility.

Sherlock spun around to face his husband and the upset young man and Andy was speared with intent, fiery grey eyes. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock asked in a tone that demanded a truthful answer.

Andy bit his lip in thought, nodded to himself and pulled his hands from his pockets. "Come on, I'll have to show you," he told them and headed away from the displays to a door that was marked 'Employees Only'. He cast a furtive glance around to make sure none of the other employees were watching and then gestured them in.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Andy unlocked the blue door, pushed it open and reached along the wall of the dark room for the light switch. Finally finding it he flipped on the lights and led the other two men into the large room. "She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony," he explained. "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here." He motioned to the bank of vaults on the right.

Andy ambled to the vaults and twirled the mechanism to pull the doors back. John stood at his shoulder but Sherlock took a few steps farther and seemed to be searching for something in the shadows of the room.

John looked over Andy's shoulder into the small room revealed behind the door but saw nothing out of the ordinary for a museum vault. Lots of old relatively useless junk, really. He turned his head to see if Sherlock had any insight and realized that his husband was no longer next to them. He quickly scanned the depths of the room and finally found him standing in front of a statue. "Sherlock?" He asked quietly and then he focused on the statue.

John and Andy both gave sharp, soft gasps. John because of the familiarity of the painted symbols covering the statue and Andy because of the destruction of valuable museum property. Who would do such a thing? Why would someone graffiti a replica of Venus?

Sherlock spun back around at the sound of their gasps and nodded to John. "That certainly clears matters up a bit," Sherlock declared and headed for the door to leave. He had all the data he needed for now. Andy obviously knew nothing and finding the symbols here gave him a very good theory on what had happened and how to catch their killer.

"What…clears…how?" Andy spluttered. He took in a deep breath and glared at Sherlock's back as he hurried out the door behind him. "Soo Lin didn't do that!" He exclaimed. "She wouldn't."

Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Really?" He drawled. "How do you know?" He, of course, knew that Soo Lin hadn't spray painted the statue but Andy shouldn't jump to conclusions this way.

Andy's scowl became even darker. "She just wouldn't all right? I know her. Soo Lin wouldn't deface an artifact like that."

Sherlock gave him a bright smile as they entered the main part of the museum. "You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Though in this case you are quite correct. Someone else spray painted those symbols as a warning to Soo Lin." He tied the scarf that was hanging loosely about his neck a bit tighter and headed for the main doors. "Come, John, we're needed elsewhere."

John sighed but followed anyway after giving Andy a shrug and a half smile. "But…what warning?" Andy spluttered after them as they left through the main doors.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock told John as they hurried down the stairs outside the museum.

"If she's still alive," John reminded fatalistically and buttoned his coat against the chilly evening air.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something in response but never got the chance. "Sherlock," rang out in a male voice cutting through the still air. Sherlock and John both turned to face the direction the voice came from.

John groaned when he recognized the figure running towards them. "Look who it is," he said in a dismayed tone and shoved his hands in his pockets so that Raz couldn't force him to hold anymore spray paint cans.

Sherlock hid a smile at John's aggravation as the teenager came to a stop in front of them. "I've found something you'll like," Raz told them breathlessly.

John's scowl deepened but the teenager only grinned at him and then headed off down the stairs motioning for them to follow. Sherlock followed without hesitation and John growled soundlessly and then did the same.


	22. The Train Yard

**Disclaimer: You will never believe what happened last night! I actually got a letter from BBC! Squee! The letter gave me all the rights to the characters and royalties from the TV show Sherlock! It was wonderful. They even said they were sending me a Lestrade of my very own and to expect him within the next week. Yay!...And then I woke up. Talk about major depression. Anyway, they still aren't mine and I'm still very poor.**

**A/N: I guess I'm supposed to warn you that there is a bit of kissage at the end of this chapter. Not too graphic…really, it's not. Other than that, enjoy.**

**The Train Yard**

The traffic noises covered most of John's rant at Raz but enough got through to Sherlock to make him a bit irritated at his husband. They were trying to catch a killer and John was freaking out about a stupid ASBO that Mycroft was going to make disappear anyway.

"Tuesday morning, all you've got to do is turn up," John continued his rant at Raz, who was paying him little if any attention. "And say the bag was yours."

Sherlock scowled and refused to even glance at John. Didn't he realize that his reputation could take the hit of an ASBO but Raz's couldn't? "Could we forget about your court date?" He snarled finally.

John shot Sherlock a furious look but shut his mouth on the words wanting to escape. Pissing Sherlock off could be fun at times but the middle of a case wasn't one of them.

None of them noticed the Asian woman dressed in unrelieved black and dark sunglasses, out of place in the falling twilight that watched them go.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Raz led them through one of the many semi-abandoned underground tube stations that had been overtaken by the city's rebelling youth. Every surface had graffiti of some kind and Sherlock smirked in realization. "If you want to hide a tree," he mused aloud. "Then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" He glanced over to see Raz's nod and John's deliberate forward gaze. "People would just walk straight past not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

Raz grinned at the detective. Sherlock was always amusing. His husband was kind of entertaining too. In a grumpy way, of course but Raz was willing to give the man a bit of leeway. He'd been in a war after all. That would make even the happiest person in the world a bit grumpy wouldn't it? Raz stopped walking and pointed to a place in front of them. "There."

Sherlock peered closely at the graffiti covered pillar. There, under a lightning bolt was the same paint. From what Sherlock could tell the paint was shaped into an ancient Chinese symbol. Strange that and yet not. Strange place for it to be, considering Lukis and Van Coon were unlikely to be down here, ever. Still they couldn't be the only two smugglers in London, could they?

"I spotted it down here earlier," Raz told them. John and Sherlock leaned closer to the graffiti in an effort to get a better look.

Sherlock straightened up and gave Raz one of his intense looks. "And that's the exact same paint?"

Raz nodded eagerly. "Yeah."

Sherlock gave the teenager a grin before turning to his husband. "John, if we're going to decipher this code, we're going to need to look for more evidence."

Other than a roll of his eyes and a frown John ignored him.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock shined his torch around the tracks in the train yard. There had to be something here. It was a central location. It was easily accessible and had large walls surrounding it. The message had to be here.

He could hear the loud raucous sounds of the teens inside but the noise didn't bother him. A glint of metal in the light of his torch had him stooping next to the tracks. An empty can of yellow spray paint.

With a small grin he plucked the can from the tracks. Sherlock popped the end of his small torch in his mouth so he could have both hands free and ran a gloved thumb on the sprayer. Dry. He sniffed at the top of the can to attempt to determine how long it had been lying there. Not more than a day.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John slowly made his way down the tunnel. He checked every bit of graffiti he could find, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant. Just because their murderer had used the yellow before didn't mean that he always did.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock ran his torch over the walls slowly. The message had to be here somewhere. What was he missing?

Frustrated at the lack of clues, he tore the corner from a flyer to check underneath it. Nothing. Again. He moved on.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John had made his way outside. He was fairly sure that he was covering the same ground Sherlock had already done but two sets of eyes surely didn't hurt any. On the other hand, Sherlock had said he was going to be on the other side of the yard so he'd better keep a close eye out for the message.

Nearly stumbling over some rocks he decided that he'd better keep one eye on his feet. Then he spotted them. Little spots of yellow paint. Surely it could be that easy.

But it looked like it was just that easy. He followed the trail of paint spots until they ended at one of the walls. John backed up so that he could see the whole of the wall and the message written in the ancient Chinese numbering system on it. Oh. Oh my. Score one for the doctor then. Sherlock would be pleased.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Answer your phone," John's exasperated voice cut through the night air like a bomb. Sherlock turned to the direction the voice was coming from and narrowed his eyes at John. Couldn't John see that he was busy looking for the coded message? He should be doing the same thing. "I've been calling you." John stopped at the edge of one of the train cars and tried to catch his breath. "I found it," he declared before Sherlock could berate him for abandoning his search.

Sherlock's eyes widened though he was the only one that noticed in the dark. John spun around and headed back the way he'd come, Sherlock sprinting after him.

John finally stopped in front of a blank wall. "It's been painted over," he told Sherlock in shock. Sherlock shined his light away from the wall to try and spot the culprit. "I don't understand. It-it was…here. Ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole lot of graffiti."

Sherlock turned away from the empty yard and stared at the blank wall. "Somebody doesn't want me to see it." Quick as a striking snake he sprung at John and grasped his head between his hands.

John immediately protested and tried to squirm away. Sherlock's hold was a bit tighter than John was comfortable with. "Sherlock, what are you…?"

"Shh!" Sherlock shushed him and gentled his hold a fraction. "John. Concentrate." He told him firmly. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

John only stared at him confused. "What? Why? Why?" He questioned. Sherlock let go of his head and grabbed his arms. "What are you doing?" Sherlock started slowly spinning and John was forced to follow.

Sherlock's grey eyes locked with John's hazel ones. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

John, caught in that hawk like gaze, nodded slightly. "Yeah."

Sherlock seemed to stare harder at him. "Can you remember it?"

John was feeling a bit dizzy now. "Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yes," John said exasperated.

"How much can you remember it?"

John tried to shake him off but Sherlock's grip was like iron and he wouldn't stop turning. "Well, don't worry…"

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well don't worry, I remember all of it," John stated confidently with a glare at Sherlock for daring to doubt him.

"Really?" Had John acquired an eidetic memory while he'd been away? It was possible but not very probable.

John finally succeeded in flinging himself from Sherlock's hold. "Yeah, well, at least I would if I can get to my pockets." He took a few steps away and rummaged in his coat pocket before pulling out his phone. "Took a photograph," he explained.

Sherlock's jaw dropped as John flipped the phone around and showed his husband the photo he'd taken of the wall and the coded message. Sherlock took the phone from his hand, looked down at it for a moment and then put it in his pocket. "Brilliant," he breathed.

John wasn't totally unprepared for Sherlock's grip on his head this time. Sherlock's eyes had changed to blue as he'd shown him the picture and so it was more than half expected that Sherlock would grip the back of his neck and pull his lips up and onto his own. Still he couldn't stop that gasp the action provoked and then when Sherlock's tongue invaded he was grateful for the gasp.

After several blissful moments Sherlock finally pulled away. "You are utterly brilliant," he praised before dipping in for another taste, lapping at John's swollen lips. "I want you."

John smiled a bit and sucked that overly talented tongue into his own mouth. "You always want me," John murmured when he'd released his prisoner.

"True," Sherlock laid a line of wet kisses along his jaw. "Home?"

"Oh God yes," John agreed readily.


	23. Ciphers and Teapots

**Disclaimer: Even though it was a dream I can't help but catch my breath every time my dad brings home the mail or every time there is a knock on the door. This completely illogical hope won't leave me and I've already written my letter to Santa Claus. Yes, I know he's a mythological figure. Yes, I know that it was a dream. Yes, I know I need mental help. Know what? I don't care. At. All. If this is crazy then I'll definitely take it over being sane, sad and bored. But for those of you who are sane, sad and probably bored out of your skulls because you aren't crazy: The characters are not mine and I make no money from my stories.**

**A/N: I may be messing with the timeline a bit here but I don't really care much. Let me know what you think.**

**Ciphers and Teapots**

Knowing the language the code was written in didn't help Sherlock figure it out as much as he'd thought it would. He'd been pondering the numbers all night and more than half the day. Even a reboot to his brain via some very satisfying sex the night before after they'd made it home hadn't sparked any ideas to the meaning of the numbers.

John had left early this morning and Sherlock tried to remember where. He needed John here. John would give him an idea, a theory, something. Even if it was completely wrong. Even when John was wrong it usually led to Sherlock seeing something he'd missed. John helped him more than his husband would ever understand. Where had he gone?

Oh. Right. Job. At a surgery. Stupid. John didn't need a job. John should be here. Now he'd have to wait for his husband to get home. Annoying. John should be here, making him tea and giving him inane and most probably incorrect theories on this blasted code.

Hours later John had finally trooped in. Tired but satisfied with his day of healing. That was…good, sort of. Sherlock was glad John was happy but the countless hours of waiting irritated him and not having John within touching distance had always unsettled him. More so now than ever.

His eyes swept over the photographs taped to the mirror. He wrenched his brain back to the case. He'd deal with the job later. "Always in pairs, John, look." He said suddenly.

"Hmm?" John answered sleepily. He was leaning against the desk more than half asleep when the tall detective finally deigned to notice that he was home. It had been a very long day, made only longer with Sherlock's fractious mood.

"Numbers," Sherlock continued while John squeezed his eyes open and shut in an effort to wake himself up properly now Sherlock had decided to talk to him again. "Come with partners."

John bit back a laugh at the inappropriate thought that sprang into his mind at this statement. "God, I need to sleep," he muttered at himself and scrubbed at his face with his hands.

Sherlock either didn't hear him or was ignoring him. John was betting on the latter. "Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John said quietly after a long stretch. Though he did have a fairly good one. That wall was in a central location, easily seen from the trains as they slowed down into the station or sped up from the station. Sherlock was too lost inside his own head to hear him though so it would do no good to point it out.

Sherlock put his fingers on one of the photos as though he could divine the meaning of the code from touch alone. "Thousands of people pass by there every day."

John closed his eyes again and tilted his head to the ceiling. "Please, just twenty minutes," he begged.

Sherlock again either didn't hear or chose not to hear him. He ran his fingers over the photos again. "Of course," he breathed. "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld." Sherlock's hands were flying as fast as his mouth was moving, though his eyes never left the photos. "Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." He traced the symbols again. "And it's somewhere here, in a code." He started pulling the photos from the mirror. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

John gave a half stretch and started to stand. "Oh, good," he mumbled. He'd really rather go to bed but if he left Sherlock to himself he'd get hurt.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

The museum was dark but somehow Sherlock knew Andy was still inside. John was just tired enough that he wondered, not for the first time, if his husband had magical powers. Then he realized that the only magic Sherlock possessed was the magic of technology. Andy was waiting for their knock and he let them in without any surprise at all.

The three men stood around the same artifact they had earlier. "Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock told the young man who stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. "And their killer left them messages in Hang Zhou numerals."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Soo Lin Yao is in danger," he pressed Andy. "That cipher, it was just the same pattern as the others." Andy took one hand from his pocket and rubbed it over his face while he blew out a deep breath and then scratched at a place on his head behind his ear. "He means to kill her as well," John told him intently.

Andy regarded them both with serious, sad eyes. "Look, I've tried everywhere—friends, colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. I mean she could be a thousand miles away." He gave a helpless shrug.

John suddenly became aware of Sherlock's intense grey eyed stare at a display case of tea pots behind him. "What are you looking at?" He asked him.

Sherlock pointed one black gloved finger at the case. "Tell me more about those tea pots," he ordered Andy.

Andy gave him a confused look but replied gamely. "Those pots were her…obsession. Um, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Uh, apparently you just have to keep making tea in them."

Sherlock leaned down so his eyes were level with the pots. "Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two." He stood up quickly. "Thank you, Andy. We need to have a look around. Lock up when you leave and we'll be fine."

Andy's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "But…what?" He spluttered at the taller man. "I don't understand."

John patted his shoulder, companionably. "Sometimes it's best to just let him get on with things, Andy. Just don't ask and you won't need to deny anything later. We'll find Soo Lin for you, don't worry."

Andy gave him a wan smile and a nod. "Just go out the employee entrance when you leave. It locks automatically once it shuts and you need a key card to get back in."

John smiled back at him while Sherlock strolled off and allowed himself to be engulfed in the shadows. "Thanks Andy."


	24. Soo Lin's Story

**Disclaimer: Want to know what I think is the worst part of working at a school? You don't? Tough. I'm gonna tell you anyway. It's the fact that you catch every single little illness going around because you have so much contact with the kids that carry it. Head lice? Been there at least once a year. Strep throat? Oh yeah, couple times. Stomach flu? Yep, that too. The worst is the colds though. Did you know that the average cold lasts 7-10 days? It does. Now during cold and flu season the cold virus mutates on average about once every two weeks. What does that mean? It means that during cold and flu season I spend the entire time coughing and sniffling because as soon as one leaves the next one comes and I catch it. So all that being said I don't feel like making up a creative disclaimer because I can't stop sneezing and my head is filled with snot. So I don't own them and I make no money from these stories. Straight to the point, right?**

**Soo Lin's Story**

Slim fingers slipped through the grate, pushing it out and away from the wall with a scrape of metal on stone. She wasn't too worried about the noise. There wouldn't be anyone here at this hour. Even Andy would have gone home already.

She knew where all the cameras were and made her way through their blind spots. She was on a mission. Even though she was running for her life she had to make sure the teapots were taken care of. No one else would do it. She took the pots from the display case and headed off to her work station.

She didn't dare to turn on any of the lights. She didn't need them anyway. She could probably make tea in these pots in her sleep, so familiar was she with the routine of it. Letting the actions soothe her she poured the steaming water into the pot and twirled the lid around the edge before placing it where it belonged. She poured the water into the cups, letting the sound wash over her. It was a familiar sound, soothing, normal. Slowly her shoulders relaxed. She drew in a breath as she put the pot back on the table and poured more water over it. She picked it up and poured just a bit on the cups and tray before holding the pot in both hands and swirling it around inside.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" The shadow she hadn't even noticed at her side asked in a droll tone.

Startled, Soo Lin gasped with a short sharp yelp, half turned and the pot flew from her hands. The shadow, tall, dark hair and light eyes had some of the quickest reflexes of anyone she'd ever met. He caught the pot before it had even fallen a foot from her hands.

He stared down at it for a moment and then slowly raised his head to look her in the eye. "Centuries old," he whispered. "Don't want to break that." He rose to his feet from the crouched position he'd assumed when he'd caught the tea pot and handed it back to her. He turned on the light for her table and gave her a quirk of the lips that she decided was a smile. "Hello." He said simply.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"You saw the cipher," she told them after they had introduced themselves. She closed her eyes in a long blink to try and control the regret and sadness. "You know he is coming for me." She looked towards the taller of the two, Sherlock Holmes, there was something about him that seemed to draw her attention to him. His companion, Dr. John Watson, was shorter and unremarkable though he exuded comfort and safety.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock told her. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and snort. Her brother was letting her avoid him. That wouldn't last much longer though.

"I had to finish," she tried to explain. "To finish this work." She motioned to the tea pots and cups still laid out on the table. He had understood and allowed her to finish the work. She wasn't sure these two Westerners would though. She drew in a shaky breath. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me." He would. He probably already had. She was afraid to die and yet she had made her peace and finished her work and so she could go to her grave content with that at least.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his grey eyes intense and unwavering from her own. "Who is he?" He asked sharply. "Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin wrenched her eyes away and stared at the floor. She swallowed hard before beginning the story. She had never told anyone about her brother before. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his…signature." She knew her sentences were jumbled and wrong but this was difficult and she didn't much care if they understood.

"The cipher?" Sherlock asked her.

They sat in silence for a moment as Soo Lin gathered her thoughts. Finally she looked up at him. "Only he would do this," she explained with conviction. "Zhi Zhu." It sounded almost like a curse when she said it. Any yet there was a deep sorrow there as well.

John leaned back on the stool at Andy's table. "Zhi Zhu?" He questioned.

Sherlock glanced at him. "The Spider," he answered.

Soo Lin ignored this byplay and slowly unlaced her shoe. Taking it off, she showed them the tattoo on the bottom of her foot. "You know this mark?" She asked.

Sherlock's gaze swung back to hers. "Yes." He answered without any inflection to give away his thoughts. "It's the mark of a Tong."

John lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. "Hmm?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave the mark even as he answered. "Ancient crime syndicate, based in China." John nodded in acknowledgement and turned his attention back to the young girl with the sad brown eyes.

Her eyes were fixed to the mark. "Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them."

"Hauls?" John asked for clarification though he was fairly sure he knew what it meant. Soo Lin stayed quiet and kept her eyes averted. "You mean you were a smuggler?" He allowed some of his incredulous surprise to show through in his tone.

Soo Lin slowly put her shoe back on, covering the damning mark. "I was fifteen," she said slowly. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day," her voice grew stronger as she spoke. She was not asking for forgiveness or absolution. She was merely stating her reasons for choosing the path she had. "Except to work for the bosses."

If Sherlock was surprised by Soo Lin's tale he didn't show it in his expression and he didn't let it bleed through into his voice. "Who are they?" He asked her quietly.

Soo Lin finally looked up at him, her gaze determined beneath the fear. "They are called the Black Lotus." She looked away again her eyes going unfocused as though lost in the memories of her childhood. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong." Soo Lin swallowed heavily and pulled her gaze away from the memories. "I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." A smile pulled at her cheeks. "They gave me a job…here." Her gaze took in the large room and tables. "Everything was good." The smile fell from her face and the sad brown eyes grew wet. "New life."

"Then he came looking for you," Sherlock concluded when Soo Lin seemed to stop.

Soo Lin's wet brown eyes caught his again. "Yes," she gasped and swallowed though the tears didn't go away. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me," she licked her lips. "But they never really let you leave. A small community like ours," a tear tracked down her cheek. "They are never very far away." She wiped at her wet cheeks with both hands. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him track down something that was stolen."

John traced his bottom lip with finger and thumb as he thought. "And you have no idea what it was?" He asked.

Soo Lin shook her head. "I refused to help."

John leaned forward putting his elbows on the table between them. "So you knew him well when you were living back in China?"

Soo Lin nodded faintly this time a lost look taking over her brown eyes. "Oh, yes." Finally her eyes lifted from the table and caught on Sherlock's again. "He's my brother."


	25. Murder at the Museum

**Disclaimer: Right so they're not mine. Really wish they were right now. I'm sick and I want a cuddle but there is no one to give me one. Bet Lestrade would give me a cuddle…or John. John's nice and cuddly with those jumpers and all. Sherlock? Yeah, I'm seeing him as a repressed cuddler. He's never had anyone to cuddle so he'd be all uncomfortable and stuff and then he'd get into it and be just lovely at it. Any of those would work. Not Anderson. I'll never be sick enough to want a cuddle with Anderson. Great now I have to go throw up. Evil of you to do that to a sick person. Really.**

**A/N: In case you hadn't notice from the past few days I have a head cold. A bad one. So any rambling or things that don't make much sense, blame the drugs and general fogginess in my head. I'd apologize but as it's not exactly my fault I won't. Anyway, enjoy the story. Oh! Warning for character death but if you've watched the show then you know this already and if you haven't well…there you go. Someone dies soon. Good? Okay, on with the story then.**

**I would like to apologize for the delay in updating this story. I've been ill with a monster head cold and I had to work so I haven't updated or written as I wished to. Forgive me?**

**Murder at the Museum**

It was time. Time to make another. Time to do the one thing he'd never really wanted too. But he had his orders. They didn't care. They never had and yet they are all he has now. All he has had for five years.

He pulls the paper from the box. The actions soothed him. Centered him. Cool, crisp lines. Fold here. Tip that corner over. It must be absolutely perfect this time. He could do this much for her. Make it perfect, beautiful in its sinister glory. He would make it quick as well. They would never know. She was his after all. Long before they were there she was.

He would follow his orders because he must. But there would be no enjoyment in it. Not in this. Not when he was only doing his duty. And he would make her origami lotus perfect because he could. And he would make her death as quick and painless as he could because at one time she had meant everything to him.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Whatever John had been expecting Soo Lin to say about the mysterious and deadly Zhi Zhu it certainly wasn't that. He'd thought maybe old lover, boss, best friend but brother had never even crossed his mind.

"Two orphans," Soo Lin's voice pulled him away from his shock and he concentrated on her again. "We had no choice." John could have debated that but he chose not to. He could understand actually. A choice between starving to death on the streets and running drugs for a place to sleep wasn't much of a choice to begin with. "We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the street like beggars." He'd been right then. He took no satisfaction in his deduction. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan, Black Lotus General." Soo Lin took in a shaky breath. "I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day, I came to work and the cipher was waiting." Another tear tracked down her cheek but she ignored it.

John and Sherlock exchanged a look while Soo Lin continued to stare off into the distance. John's hazel eyes were filled with a kind of furious sorrow. Sherlock's with impatience. John's lips nearly quirked at that look. He knew that Sherlock thought they could save her. If they were fast enough then Soo Lin would live and he wanted to get started already. John knew that they couldn't though. Soo Lin had accepted that she would die. Maybe, in a way, she longed for it. Sherlock's grey eyes communicated his irritation at John's pessimism and he looked away, furious with his husband for his lack of faith.

He pulled a copy of the photograph from John's phone of the wall of symbols. Sherlock laid it down on the table between he and Soo Lin. "Can you decipher these?" He pushed the paper towards Soo Lin.

Soo Lin leaned forward at once. Her finger traced along one of the symbols. "These are numbers."

Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes and scoff. The "Yes, I know," escaped his lips before he could stop it though.

Soo Lin appeared not to hear him though. "Here, the line across the man's eyes," she pointed it out. "It's a Chinese number one."

Sherlock shifted on his feet allowing some of his impatience to show through. "And this one is fifteen," he pointed to the next symbol quickly. "But what's the code?"

Soo Lin looked up finally, away from the photos. "All the smugglers know it," she told them. "It's based upon a book." She turned to the side reaching a hand out.

A loud crashing thud and the sudden dousing of the lights stopped her movements. Sherlock stood up to his full height and John leapt from the stool he'd been leaning on. Soo Lin froze.

"He's here," she whispered fearfully, her breathing suddenly heavy. "Zhi Zhu…" Her eyes squeezed shut. "He has found me."

Without a word Sherlock turned and bolted for the door. John watched him go with wide hazel eyes for an instant before giving chase. "Sherlock! Sherlock! Wait!" He called out desperately and stopped his frantic chase before he'd gone five steps. He grabbed Soo Lin's arm and pulled her to one of the large cabinets. "Come here," he ordered. "Get in. Get in!"

Knowing that Sherlock wouldn't want him to leave her alone he huddled in beside her and cursed his husband under his breath.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock paid no attention to John's shouts and just ran out into the main part of the museum. He had to be here somewhere. Sherlock came to an abrupt halt in the center of a moonlit space from one of the high windows. He spun in a circle attempting to spot Zhi Zhu. Movement in the corner of his eye had him looking up and into the barrel of a gun on one of the balconies.

Before his brain had time to process the threat (astounding when you think about how fast his brain processes information) Sherlock's body had dodged to the left and his feet had spirited him back into the shadows. By the time the pistol barked a second time Sherlock was already diving and sliding along the marble floor. The third and fourth shots came in quick succession and had Sherlock scrambling for cover behind a statue.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John tilted his head to the side at the faint sound of gunshots. Not good. When he got his hands on Sherlock…well, he'd either kill him or kiss him. He couldn't stay here. "I have to go and help him," John said more to himself than the girl. He gave her a quick glance. "Bolt the door after me," he instructed.

Soo Lin knew she should protest. As long as this man was with her Zhi Zhu would leave her alone. But she couldn't. She knew that he was afraid for what Zhi Zhu would do to his husband and so knowing, even as she did it, that it would lead to her death this night she let Dr. John Watson leave.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John knew that he should have stayed with Soo Lin. It's what Sherlock would have trusted him to do. Protect the girl. But he couldn't. Sherlock needed him. And when it came down to brass tacks John didn't actually care about anyone but Sherlock. Everyone looked at them and claimed that Sherlock was the one with no heart. Wouldn't they all be astounded to learn that the only person on the planet that really, truly meant a damn thing to him was Sherlock? He was the one who had no heart and no real caring for others.

Sure he'd be upset if Mycroft or Molly or Mrs. Hudson or even Harry were killed but the one person on this planet, in this universe, in any universe, anywhere that he would let the world burn for would be Sherlock. As long as Sherlock was alive then the rest of the world could go hang.

He crept from the work room and tread on nearly silent feet out into the museum proper. He tried to stick to the shadows and look everywhere at once. Where was Sherlock?

Two more shots rang out and John ducked behind a pillar even though he was fairly sure those bullets weren't headed for him. Army training and all that. He didn't hear Sherlock's cry of pain so he figured they hadn't met their mark which was good.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock stayed behind the statue until running footsteps alerted him to the killer's movement. Where was he going? He leapt to his feet and ran after him. Across the lobby and up the stairs. Sherlock himself wasn't the target tonight. Soo Lin was. He had to stop him.

He didn't see John peering carefully around a pillar as he sped past. He kept running up the stairs after Zhi Zhu. He had to catch him. He grabbed the post at the top of the stairs and used his own momentum to turn the corner. Sherlock raced through a set of doors and immediately ducked the two shots that were fired at him. Zhi Zhu was a horrible shot but even bad marksmen get lucky sometimes.

He leaned back, out of sight, against a wall for a moment to catch his breath and think up a plan. Ah! Yes! Brilliant. "Careful!" He shouted out. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old." They weren't but Zhi Zhu wasn't to know that. "Have a bit of respect!" No more shots came at him from the shadows. Good. "Thank you." John was always nagging him to be more polite well there we go. Politeness and it didn't even hurt.

Oh. Oops. Had he left? Dammit. Sherlock poked his head cautiously around the door. Yep. Gone. Not good.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Soo Lin huddled in the dark of the closet. She flinched slightly with each echoing gunshot. She didn't have much time. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed that she had enough. She had to have enough time for this. They needed her help.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock eyed the room of skulls closely. Where had Zhi Zhu disappeared to? He had to find him. Soo Lin's life depended on it.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John stood absolutely still in the center of the room for a moment then he twisted in a circle searching the shadows of both floors for any sign of the other men. Nothing. No clues to where they'd gone. He had to find them.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Soo Lin, scared but determined, crept from the closet and towards her table. She prayed the whole way that he would give her the time she needed. She prayed that the men trying to protect her would stay safe. She prayed that she would do better, be better next time.

Finally she reached the table and slowly rose to her feet. Was he hiding in the shadows, this beloved brother that had come to kill her?

Without knowing how she suddenly knew that he was standing behind her. Slowly she turned around to face him. For a timeless moment neither moved. The love they once had for each other a tightness between them. Slowly she told him of his meaning to her in their own language. He needed to know that she forgave him and loved him as her brother still. She cupped his cheek in her hand and prepared to meet her fate.

It was fitting, appropriate, that the last sight she had of this earth was his face. She was ready. The last sound Soo Lin Yao ever heard was Zhi Zhu's voice whispering to her that he loved her.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John stood silent. Listening. The flurry of gunshots had ceased and still he waited. Any sound now would at least give him an idea of where his husband had got off to.

The loud bang of another gunshot rang through the room. John whirled to face the direction it had come from. "Oh, my God," he breathed out. It had come from the workroom. Maybe shouldn't have left her, even though he knew he could have done nothing else. Sherlock was more important…at least to him. This was not good.

John raced back towards the employee entrance. He had to be sure. He had to know that it wasn't Sherlock's dead body lying in some dark corner.

John crept into the workroom, eyes raking the shadows for any movement. There was nothing. Zhi Zhu must have already fled. He finally reached Soo Lin's table and a small sound of sorrow and dismay worked its way from his throat. Even in death Soo Lin had a seeming serenity about her. Her expression was peaceful and a small smile danced on her lips.


	26. Convincing Dimmock

**Disclaimer: Still not mine and I'm still sick so I don't care except that I really would love a Lestrade to cuddle up to right now.**

**A/N: Okay so now the pesky death stuff is out of the way and we're moving on. I hope you didn't cry too much…I did so don't feel bad if you did too. On with the story.**

**Convincing Dimmock**

"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John shot at DI Dimmock in frustration.

Dimmock hunched his shoulders a bit as he packed up a few of his things and wouldn't look John in the eye. He didn't even glance his way as he walked past him and missed John's scowl at him.

John grimaced as Dimmock brushed by him and then half turned to continue watching the young DI. "A young girl was gunned down tonight." John finished his turn and took a few menacing steps forwards. "That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him."

Sherlock normally preferred to allow John to deal with the people they needed to get around on a case. John was much better at human interaction than he was. But Dimmock was proving far more reticent than he'd expected and John was still trying to swallow his guilt over Soo Lin's death. So Sherlock decided maybe he'd better step in before John showed Dimmock why it was never a good idea to make John too angry.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang or international smugglers," Sherlock explained to him in an undertone. "A gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose."

Dimmock froze momentarily at the mention of the Black Lotus. They could be rather nasty when they wanted to be. He wondered briefly if maybe pushing Sherlock and John this way wasn't what Lestrade had meant when he'd said to remind them that Dimmock would need solid evidence for a court case. Too late now though so shut his eyes in a long blink. "Can you prove that?" He asked as calmly as he could.

John crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the younger man. Sherlock only stood up straighter and let a smirk pass over his lips.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Dimmock stepped out of his car in front of St. Bart's with a frown. He really didn't have time for this. "Come on," a voice said from right beside him as he closed the door causing him to start in surprise. "I'll take you to the morgue."

"I do know where the morgue is, Dr. Watson," Dimmock bit out with a glare at the shorter man. "This isn't my first case."

John only shrugged, unconcerned. "Still, I'll walk there with you," he said and headed up the stairs knowing Dimmock would follow.

"So where's your partner in crime?" Dimmock tried to sound casual as he trotted after the doctor.

John inclined his head to the side without slowing. "Getting dinner for a friend," he said smoothly. "He'll meet us there."

Dimmock allowed his eyes to drift in the direction John had indicated and his jaw dropped open in surprise and confusion. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the shadows outside the doors with a gorgeous dark haired woman. The two had their heads close together as they talked and then the woman handed over a plain brown sack, turned away and headed down the stairs with a purpose. "Who is that?" Dimmock breathed out.

John tossed a smile, wolfish and terrifying, over his shoulder. "Not someone you ever want to meet." John sped through the doors and down the halls with Dimmock scurrying to keep up.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"So what are you thinking," Sherlock asked in a low voice right next to her ear. "The pork or the pasta or the brown bag special?"

Molly spun and plucked the bag from his hand. "The special, thank you." She grinned at him. "Evening Sherlock."

Sherlock inclined his head in a nod and gifted her with one of his rare small smiles. "Molly." He eyed her hair then. "Baby giving you a hard time today?"

Molly took hold of his elbow and led him from the cafeteria. "A bit," she finally admitted. Then she smiled up at him again. "What'd you bring me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "A didn't tell me what was in the bag," he told her as they wandered towards the morgue. "Only that it was your dinner."

Molly's tinkling laughter filled the corridor. "That has never stopped you from knowing, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked in response. "Very true. Good observation," he complimented. "It's Greek. Spanikopita and galaktoboureko."

Molly clutched the plain brown bag a bit tighter to her chest in delight. "Sometimes you have to wonder how Alessandra does it," she said seriously. "It's like she's telepathic or magic or something." Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. "Now why have you come to visit?"

Sherlock widened his eyes and frowned. "I'm not allowed to visit simply because I wanted to see you?" He affected a wounded tone. None of this made any impression on Molly. She'd spent too much time around him already and there was the fact that she was married to his brother. These things together made her nearly immune to Sherlock's machinations. She leveled a long look at him and he sighed. "Fine. I need to see some bodies."

"Well, then you've come to the right place. It's a morgue. We've got lots of bodies," she grinned up at him again. "Any specific type you want to look at?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis," he answered promptly.

Molly frowned in thought for a moment and then gave him a mild glare. "You couldn't have come by half an hour ago, _before_ I finished filing the paperwork?" Sherlock gave her a charming smile. Molly had thought she was immune to Sherlock after all this time; turns out she wasn't completely though. She may not melt into a puddle of goo at that smile but she did still find him adorable. "All right, all right, stop with the smile before one of these poor interns or nurses or someone faints."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked around in mock horror before he made a show of returning his expression to a bland and boring one and Molly's tinkling laughter once again filled the corridor.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Molly carefully pulled the zipper back on the body bag containing Brian Lukis. "We're just interested in the feet," Sherlock called out before she had the zipper halfway down his chest.

Molly stopped and looked up. "The feet?" She questioned, confused.

Sherlock and Dimmock, whom she'd met a few times but wasn't all that friendly with, filed by her while John stood next to the door watching them. "Yes." Sherlock answered simply. He turned and walked backwards a few paces so that he could look at her. "Do you mind if we have a look at them?"

Molly shrugged and moved down to unzip the bag near Lukis' feet. She was well used to Sherlock's odd requests though she was still trying to figure out why he'd needed boric acid, a paper plate, a corn cob and a wrench the last time he'd dropped by. She unzipped the bag and watched as Sherlock and Dimmock stared down at the exposed feet. Dimmock's expression showed the beginnings of dismay and resignation and Sherlock's…well, Sherlock was looking entirely too smug.

Sherlock turned from the body and stepped to the other body bag. "Now Van Coon," he instructed.

Molly wasn't sure what the pretty little tattoo meant but she was sure that it was important. She'd noted it earlier on both of the corpses and she now understood that whatever it meant Sherlock was on top of things. She followed his instructions with a slight smile.

Sherlock turned that wide, smug grin on Dimmock as the shorter man's jaw dropped open in shock. "Oh! So…" Dimmock scrambled for something to say.

Sherlock didn't give him a chance to gather his scattered thoughts. "So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour, or I'm telling the truth."

Molly shared a small, triumphant smile with John as she zipped the bags back up quietly. Sherlock had won whatever argument he and the DI weren't having. She loved watching Sherlock take stupid people apart this way. She knew she shouldn't but Sherlock was just so good at it that it was nearly like watching a show.

Dimmock knew he'd been beat. He didn't mind though. Sherlock was obviously very good at this and Lestrade had warned him. The matching tattoos were enough evidence for him. "What do you want?" He asked in a resigned tone.

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment, and Van Coon's," Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Dimmock stared at Sherlock for an instant. He'd not been expecting that request. "Their books?" He queried. He thought he heard a muffled groan from by the door but he ignored it to maintain his focus on the man in front of him.

Sherlock turned his head and rolled his eyes at John before turning back to the young DI. "Yes, their books, Inspector." He turned away from the DI and strode to Molly. "Thank you, Molly," he told her and kissed her cheek. "Enjoy the dinner and we'll see you later."

Before Dimmock could even process what he'd just seen John and Sherlock had disappeared out the door and he was left alone in the morgue with two dead bodies and a snickering woman. "Wha…but…what?" He stuttered.

The woman, Molly if he remembered correctly, patted his arm gently. "You get used to him," she giggled.

He gave her a half skeptical, half hopeful look. "Really?"

She giggled a bit more. "I suppose not."


End file.
